Skye danced away from the rest, took a hit on his right shoulder, and almost dropped the hickory stick. Then he cut it upward into Rufus’s groin just as the lout jabbed with the cutter. The knife ripped leather in his sleeve. Skye jammed the belaying pin into the man’s crotch and watched him fold up. Rufus tumbled to the icy ground and howled, the big knife lying ten feet away. Skye took a whack along the head from one of the others, lifted his belaying pin into the man’s jaw, and heard the crack of teeth and bone. Then suddenly they quit.
And Skye found himself staring into the bore of Chambers’s hogleg pistol.
“Very good, Skye. You’ve disabled more of my men. Now walk out and leave the goods.”
Skye laughed suddenly, relaxed his stance, and reached into his pocket. “Sign the receipt,” he said. “Trade goods for labor.”
“You step back now, step toward that gate, lift that bar, or you’re dead.”
Skye started to obey, took one step back, and then dodged to one side and plowed into the factor, knocking him over. The piece exploded with a flash. Skye felt the burn of gunpowder sear his face, but Chambers was disarmed and sitting on the cold and filthy ground.
Skye’s top hat lay on the clay, a perforation through its crown.
Skye pulled out his paper and a stubby pencil. “Sign here, Chambers,” he said.
Chambers glowered. “I will hunt you down. The company will hunt you down.”
“For what? Taking my wages in goods after you stole my labor? Let me tell you something, Chambers. I was pressed into the Royal Navy, and for seven years the Admiralty stole my labor. I’m a little tired of people stealing my labor. I’m so tired of it that I’m ready to knock your head in. So sign.”
Behind him, one man was sobbing. Two stood apart, not wanting to try Skye again. Rufus clutched his groin and groaned softly. Chambers still exuded contempt, but now it was leavened by a little respect.
He turned the paper so it caught the light from the kitchen hearth. “All right,” he said. He scribbled a signature. Skye took the foolscap and studied it. He had seen plenty of Chambers’s signatures. There was nothing tricky about this one. Now he had a bill of sale, one expressly saying his wage was paid in goods. The paper vanished into a pocket within his tunic.
He tucked it into the quilled buckskin tunic that Victoria had lovingly fashioned for him. He felt alone here, alone among these English-speaking white men.
He turned to them. “Remember the Golden Rule,” he said. “Treat others as you want to be treated.”
They stared.
He tested his limbs. Except for a hurt shoulder and a nasty welt on his head, he was whole. He deliberately turned his back to them, a sign of his triumph over them, and unbarred the massive gate. Then he collected his gear, the old Hawken, the bedroll, the rest, and stepped into the cold March night.
A deep chill had settled over the flat. There was little light. Behind him he heard the gates creaking shut and the heavy bar fall, locking him out. He didn’t mind. He had a kit, the result of toil and insult. He was alone now, but he had been alone ever since he had been snatched off the streets of London’s East End by a press gang. He knew where he would go, straight upriver to the Big Horn, and then start looking for the Kicked-in-the-Bellies band, Victoria’s people. Her younger brother, Arrow Giver, was there, and her younger sisters, Makes-the-Lodge and Quill-Dye-Woman were there also, married to warriors he knew. But they were a long way away.
He carried a heavy burden. The bedroll on his shoulder consisted of two new blankets and a robe; the belaying pin hung on a leather thong from his waist. His capote kept him warm. The Hawken felt good in his hands. He had his knife, hatchet, flint and steel, powder and ball, as well as the powder horn that hung on his chest.
He hadn’t a lick of food but he wasn’t worried. The river bottoms would provide. He knew of an excellent emergency food sometimes used by the Indians. Cattail roots were thick, starchy, and filled the belly. They were awful, redolent of the swamp, but they would serve. Ideally they needed to be mashed and boiled into a white paste that was edible with the fingers, and served to stay starvation and weakness. But for the moment he needed nothing, and was anxious to put miles between himself and the rotten traders at Fort Sarpy.
He did not mind the wintry night in a land without shelter. He had begun his career in the mountains thinking of wilderness as a hostile and alien place, as most white men did. Now, many years later, he viewed the wilderness as his natural home, friendly, embracing, filled with resources. He had begun not only to live in the manner of the Absarokas, but to think in their fashion too. The Crows treasured this very country as the very best place on earth, neither too hot nor too cold, with abundant game, mountain vistas, rolling prairies, and endless comforts.
He was weary. All day he had hunted, lost his horses, walked back only to find the factor resentful because he had not made meat that day, gotten into a brawl, and now was walking west through the thick darkness with only an occasional howl or the bark of a coyote to tell him that others, too, were out upon the night.
He felt the belaying pin thump against his leg. The Yanks thought it was merely a stick. It was a long shaft of polished hickory, slippery and hard to grab. Any good British seaman knew how to use it with great effect. And fists were no match for it, which is how he settled the question of whether he would leave Fort Sarpy with his wages.
When dawn broke he had made another eight or ten miles upriver. He located a cattail swamp and soon was pulling the sere brown cattails out of the half-frozen muck, collecting a heap of their thick roots. He built a small fire, nursing a spark in the bosom of the dry inner bark fibers of a dead cottonwood until it flared into flame. Then he patiently cleaned and mashed the roots with the back of his hatchet, and roasted them on rocks set close to his cheery fire.
His cheer departed when he tried to eat the stuff, but it would do, and keep him alive another day, another week, another month until he could find the treasured old mare and Jawbone. In a day or two a new year would begin, and he would make it his own best year.
twenty-three
Skye worked west along the great river, at one point circling widely around an ice floe dam that had backed water across the entire valley. The weather held. But he had seen no game and subsisted himself on roots. He was so sick of roots that he yearned for meat, any meat.
His wish was granted, or so he thought. Ahead, motionless, white on white, sat a snowshoe hare, almost invisible on a snow patch. Dinner. He lowered his plains Hawken, lined up the low sights until the hare was directly in line, and squeezed. The Hawken bucked. The hare raced away. Skye peered about sharply, looking for observers, but saw only a crow or two riding an air ladder. Missed. He had not test-fired the weapon but knew he needed to, at once, to find out what was wrong. Carefully, he ran a patch through the rifle to clean it and then measured powder and poured it down the barrel. Then he jammed home a patched ball and slipped a cap over the nipple, making sure the nipple was not fouled. He gouged a cross in a cottonwood tree and paced a hundred yards, found a log for a bench rest, settled onto the hard frozen earth, and aimed. He took his time, resting the heavy barrel on the log, until he was satisfied that his sights were squarely aligned with the mark on the tree. He squeezed. The Hawken bucked. He carefully reloaded and then walked to the tree. The ball had struck three inches low and to the right. He felt betrayed. Hawkens shouldn’t do that. His own had shot true. Still, it was valuable knowledge and he was glad he had taken the time.
The next hare might not be so lucky.
He soon found himself in deep woods across from the confluence of the Big Horn and the Yellowstone. He continued upstream along the much diminished Yellowstone, looking for a ford, usually a wide place, often braided, with rills showing, and water only a few inches deep this time of year. But he had no such luck. A man with a horse could have crossed at a dozen places; a man on foot would have to face the worst ordeal that winter travel could offer.
He
studied the river, selected a spot that was shallow except for the far side, where a channel of clear green water ran swiftly. He could not fathom how deep. One misstep would send him into a hole, up over his head, drenching everything he would carry, including his blankets. That would probably prove to be fatal, though some of the hardiest of trappers had survived similar drenchings.
He studied the far bank, wanting plenty of firewood, and saw an abundance of ancient cottonwoods. He hated what he had to do, but did it. Crossing would require two trips. He stripped, rolling his clothing and capote into the bedroll. He felt the icy air upon his flesh. He left his moccasins and hardware on the riverbank. Then he waded out, feeling the numbing water pour over his feet and ankles, wobbling as he walked over slippery rock, step by step. The water did not come to his knees but even so his lower legs were afire with cold. He reached the channel. It looked mean and swift. He tentatively stepped out, holding the roll high above his head. He felt the bottom descend swiftly and ice water boiled over his thighs, making his heart race. His whole instinct was to retreat, but he felt his way along, dreading a hole. The water slid up his torso, maddening him with its cruel cold. He almost slipped as the swift current tugged him, but then he stepped to higher ground, rough gravel that hurt his feet. He took three bold steps and a lunge and clambered up the south bank. The blankets and clothing were dry.
He was tempted to wrap himself in his robe for a while, but resisted the seduction. Instead, he steeled himself, stuck his numb limbs back into that brutal current, and made his way to the north shore. By then he was so numb his muscles weren’t working, but he had no choice. Every stitch of clothing and warmth lay on the south side. With a thong he draped his moccasins around his neck, then his belaying pin and hatchet, flint and steel, and knife and powder horn. He picked up the Hawken last, checked its load, and started for the brutal river. He had never known such dread of cold. He stood on the bank in browned grass, unable to make himself step into that current; not even the shallows that would take him three-quarters across. But he knew he was not far from the sort of cold that kills, and if he delayed he would never see another sunrise. He was quaking now, unable to stop the shudders that were unbalancing him.
There was only will, the steely determination to carry through that is our last resort. He stepped again into the river, forcefully strode through the shallows, stumbled once and again, righted himself, and came at last to the grim channel. He did not stop, for stopping would have paralyzed him. He felt the bottom decline away from him, stepped fiercely forward as ice water rose to loins and belly, and then at the middle, he did step into a hole, felt himself submerge, ice water over his chest and neck. He thrashed, plunged his Hawken into water, and made himself continue. The shore was only yards away. He stumbled up and out, shaking so hard he could not control the spasms.
There was no time. With water rivering off of him, he reached his bedroll, yanked it open, dumped his burdens, pulled the buffalo robe fur-inside around him, and shook violently, feeling no heat at all from it.
He thought he was a deadman. He felt ice clutch his heart. He clung to the robe, but it did little for him. He found his moccasins, which were largely dry, and somehow tugged them over his feet, and swiftly knew that was the right thing to do. It was as if his feet governed the rest of him; warm them a little and the rest would follow. But he could not stop his violent shaking. He rose, kept the robe wrapped tightly around him, and walked, kept on walking, made his body work. Some while later the quaking diminished to tremors. But he was still so cold he knew he would not live long without fire.
There was plenty of deadwood everywhere, but whether he could make something of it was the question. Much was half wet or icebound. He found a knothole in a willow trunk, and gingerly reached in, finding soft dry debris. This he tenderly placed under a heap of thin sticks. He found his powder horn and poured a bit of powder into the tinder. He could not control his shaking hands and arms, and feared he had poured too much, so much it would blow the tinder apart.
He found his flint and steel in their wet pouch, and now began the hard part. He could not make his hand strike the steel against flint in the practiced way, but he had to. There was, again, only will, the fierce determination to make his muscles obey him. Three strikes failed even to yield a spark from the wet flint. But then the fourth strike shot sparks into the tinder, into the powder. It hissed, flared, flashed, but did not blow the tinder apart, and suddenly he had a tiny, tentative blaze.
“Burn!” he cried hoarsely, for there was nothing he could do but wait and see. His hands trembled too violently to be adding twigs. He wrapped his robe tight again, protected the tiny fire from the breeze with his bulk, and waited an eternity, shaking badly, growing more and more weary. Would his body fail him even as the cold little fire burned?
He watched smoke curl upward. A twig flared and another. A tiny piece of deadwood caught. Then the flame seemed to retreat, and he feared it would die. He made himself rise up, dig for more tinder from any likely spot, the fiber under dead bark mostly, and fed it into the struggling little flame. It caught at once, and he knew he had won. The fire flared orange and another half a dozen deadwood sticks caught. He could live now on hope. It would be half an hour before he had heat, but he had hope and hope preserved life.
There was no warmth. He shook inside his robe. For the first time he surveyed his situation. His goods were safe; his rifle wet and probably useless. He had two blankets he didn’t touch because he didn’t want his wet body to dampen them. He saw no one. It was not yet afternoon. A weak sun, obscured by a veil of cloud, cast cold shadows.
He fed his flame more sticks. He rose, still trembling, and gathered a pile more. He would burn this whole cottonwood grove if that would warm him. He would build a bonfire ten feet around and ten feet high if that would warm him.
He jammed his beaver hat onto his head again, over wet hair. Maybe that would warm him. It did warm him; he felt it almost instantly.
He fed the fire, returned to its side, opened his robe to its radiation, and let the snapping little flame ply his damp icy flesh with the first friendly warmth it had felt. He opened his robe and spread his arms, making bat wings out of his robe, collecting every scrap of warmth coming his way. His flesh dried. He bathed in the heat, heaped more deadwood into the fire, breathed the foul cottonwood smoke, the bitterest of all wood smokes but didn’t mind. Smoke was fire, fire was life.
He brought his clothing to the fire and let it warm. He brought his Hawken close, and let it dry, making sure the octagonal barrel was pointing safely away.
He felt prickles in his flesh, but his inner torso remained numb. He needed hot liquid and had no way of heating any. He needed food, something to heat his body from within. He had seen Crows heat water within some curving green bark placed close to flame, and knew he would try it when he was able to make his arms and hands cut a piece of green bark. But for now he had nothing.
He found more firewood and added it. The fire leaped high now, sending telltale smoke high, but he didn’t much care. It was fire or death.
For an hour he sat absorbing heat, gaining ground, staving off a weariness that made him ache to lie down and tumble into oblivion. But finally, he dressed in his warmed and smoky buckskins, swiftly feeling warmer for it. Then he wrapped himself in the two new blankets as well as the robe. He had crossed the river. He was alive.
A while later he lifted the warmed Hawken, sighted on a distant tree, and squeezed. The cap popped. A faint smoke leaked from the nipple. The ball remained in the chamber, and behind it a mass of soaked powder. He had no extractor, a corkscrew-shaped device one could use to pull a ball. His Hawken was useless.
twenty-four
The trick was to heat the barrel without scorching the half stock or stock. It needed doing at once. A working piece was more important than his own comfort. He found some flat sandstone that might shield the half stock from the glowing embers, and devised a way to heat the Hawken and draw off t
he water in the powder. He hated doing it. This was no way to treat the finest rifle ever made. He was so weary that the slightest effort drained him of what little reserve he had, but bit by bit he gathered some sandstone, fed the fire, and finally laid the barrel over hot coals while the flat stone protected the rest of the weapon.
He sat and watched. He knew he should try to make a cup from green bark and heat some water and warm his innards. Instead, he slipped into his capote, rolled up his bedroll, and sat and waited, so devoid of energy that he could do no more. From time to time he fed small sticks to the flames near the barrel. Nothing happened. He hoped for a small, satisfying snap, a puff of smoke belching from the muzzle, a sign that the piece had discharged. But even after what might have been a half hour of careful roasting, nothing happened. Wearily, he found a small copper cap, slid it over the nipple, burning his fingers, and then hunted for his gauntlets. He could not handle that hot steel with bare hands. At last he was ready. He pulled the hammer back to cock, held the weapon, and pulled the trigger. It cracked. He felt the soft recoil. He set it aside, even as the barrel heat threatened to burn through his gloves. He would soon arm it and have a weapon again.
That heartened him. He found his hatchet, headed for a grove of young trees, found an elbow in a limb, and began slicing the bark from it. The task exhausted him but in time he had a hollow green-bark vessel. He dipped it into the icy river and then settled it on some of the burning-hot rock, just apart from the flame. A while later he clumsily drank warm water. After a second try, in which he heated the water longer, he downed a gill or two of good hot water, and rejoiced. He felt that heat work through his middle. He started another gill of water heating on the hot rocks, and carefully reloaded his Hawken after swabbing it. He was armed.
The Fire Arrow Page 12
