twenty-eight
He followed the trail into the Pryor Mountains the youths had taken. He didn’t know where it would lead. The Crow people didn’t say much about the place where their young men pleaded for a vision.
Occasionally he saw the fresh imprint of a moccasin in soft earth or mud. Through the afternoon he ascended into an upland desert and sensed that these mountains were in the rain shadow of the Rockies to the west. Juniper flanked these slopes, but little pine, and some brush in the watercourses. This country was arid, but fine horse pasture and it offered the Crows an almost endless pool of ponies.
Jawbone trailed behind, delighted to be alive and snorting with joy at everything that should have alarmed him, while his patient mother brought up the rear. Skye was looking for the hydrophobic wolf, as he promised he would do. The offer had not been accepted. Long Hair had a different agenda. But Skye felt obliged to find the wolf and kill it before more tragedy struck.
It was a strange story, these youths thinking the wolf came to them in a vision and the biting of their faces and legs was part of a wolf-dream, an ordeal that would lead to the fulfillment of their quest. Not only did they have no weapon to fight it or drive it off, but they were disposed by their innermost belief to welcome the rabid animal. They must have cried out with joy at the sight of it.
In some ways, the Crows puzzled him. Why did they interpret these things as omens, the wrath of spirits, things amiss in the harmony of their lives, rather than simply what this was, a rabid wolf on the loose who happened on two unarmed, vulnerable youths? He had no answers. These were another people with a different way of seeing the world.
Had that wolf wandered into a rendezvous, the trappers would have taken after it, would have hunted it down because it imperiled all of them. Maybe the Crows would too, but he doubted it. Their world was wrapped in mystery and fear of powers that rose like whirlwinds out of the little-known. He sighed. It wasn’t only a matter of reality on the one hand and superstition on the other. There were times he thought the tribal seers had something just right, some gift of discernment that seemed to probe the very soul of other life, something that Europeans did not have. But that was balanced by the sort of thing he saw today, the chief acting on a set of invented or imagined beliefs.
Skye knew he’d never understand it so there was little point in wrestling with it. He and Victoria’s people lived in different worlds. He hiked up the trail into the Pryors, hardly knowing where to look for the rabid wolf, and growing ever more aware that he hadn’t a scrap of food. He was far from the plains and river bottoms where he might find some emergency roots.
He rounded a bend and saw the wolf. It stood directly in the trail and did not run. It sat on its haunches, unafraid, usually a sign of hydrophobia. It was in terrible shape and looked more dead than alive. It did not slobber but he had seen rabid animals who had not a speck of saliva on their jaws. He would shoot this one, and brought his Hawken up.
Then Jawbone squealed and bolted straight at the wolf.
“No!” Skye roared.
It did no good. The colt raced forward. The wolf stood and snarled, its great murderous jaws snapping. Jawbone whirled, presenting his rump to the wolf, and kicked. The hooves caught the wolf amidships, even as the wolf clawed and snarled and snapped. The kick tossed the wolf into the air, and then it fell in a heap and shuddered. It did not attempt to get up, except for some weak pawing of air.
“No, no, no!” Skye bellowed, and Jawbone pranced aside, for once heeding a command.
Skye saw that the wolf was all but dead and had been even before Jawbone planted two hooves in its side. Skye lifted the heavy Hawken, aimed, and shot. The ball hit the wolf in the chest It convulsed once and went limp.
Shaking, Skye reloaded at once and turned to Jawbone.
He caught the colt and led him to a rotting snowbank where he scooped up snow and ran it over the colt’s forelegs and pasterns and then the rear legs and pasterns, looking for blood. If the snow reddened, Jawbone might well be doomed. The colt stood still, submitting to all this as if it were the most natural thing in the world, though Skye had never before handled his feet and legs.
There was no blood, not a trace of pink or red in the snow. Maybe it would live. Maybe Jawbone was destined by some sort of fate Skye couldn’t imagine to survive all manner of troubles. He eyed the strange colt, wondering what fate had given to him.
Skye was done here and it was time to head north. He had killed the wolf, as he said he would try to do. The Crows would read the evidence soon enough. He stared at Jawbone, wondering what sort of horse would run straight at a wolf and not flee it.
Skye took stock. He was high in the Pryor Mountains, which were arid and grassy, almost devoid of forest. To the north lay the Yellowstone and far away, Victoria with her people on the Musselshell. He decided to descend a long coulee, perhaps fifteen miles in length, that would take him to the Yellowstone or one of its tributaries.
It was a good choice. The descent was easy. He was soon out of the snow and into dried-up grassland. An hour later he spotted half a dozen antelope herded up in a swale, enjoying some good grasses. They spotted him, broke for cover, and he swung up his Hawken, gave the rear antelope a good lead, aimed a little high, and squeezed. The recoil slammed his shoulder. All the antelope continued to run, but then the rear one staggered, tumbled, and sprawled on the grass, thrashing. It was trying to get up and run again. He would have to put it out of its misery, and fast.
He hurried to the animal, a young buck that was breathing heavily, and cut its throat with his Green River knife. His shot had pierced the buck’s belly, missing the heart-lung area by several inches. It had been a lucky shot at well over two hundred yards.
Jawbone approached the dead antelope and sniffed, and Skye let him. He wanted the little horse to get used to the smell and sight of blood.
Skye was ravenous but there wasn’t a stick of wood anywhere near. He would have to wait.
He wrestled the buck antelope around, found it was all he could do to handle it, but forced himself to lift it to Jawbone’s packsaddle. He thought the colt would go crazy, as most horses do at the scent of blood, but Jawbone accepted the burden. After balancing it as best he could, Skye anchored the carcass on the packsaddle and he continued his long downhill journey through a waning day and twilight. It would have been convenient to find firewood before nightfall, but there was nothing but grassy slope and some occasional low chokecherry brush in watercourses.
Darkness fell, and now Skye saw Orion in the southwestern sky, a winter visitor who vanished in the warmer seasons. The horses trailed along through the darkness. It was so black that Skye feared he would tumble into a trench or hollow, so he slowed down. Nothing but faint starlight showed him the path.
He began to feel faint, and knew he must do the thing he had seen his trapper friends do time and again, though it repelled him. He halted, slit open the belly of the antelope, tore its guts out, and then probed the bloody interior until he found the liver, resting high under the rib cage. He pulled and cut it free, not even sure in that deep darkness he had what he wanted. His hands were sticky with gore but he ate the raw liver, bit by bit, finding it shockingly tasty.
He sat in the cold grass, feeling icy air eddy down the coulee, and rested awhile. He wiped his sticky hands on dried grasses, with little effect. He had rarely felt so befouled, and yet he had been nourished. His horses nibbled grass nearby. He still had a long way to go to find shelter and some firewood. The raw liver worked its peace upon him, and he ached to curl up right there within his robe and blankets, and sleep. But he didn’t like this naked place and somehow didn’t trust it either.
He found Jawbone, led the colt to where the antelope lay, and hoisted the carcass to the colt’s back. It was noticeably lighter this time, disemboweled. He floundered about but finally caught the mare, and set off down that long dry coulee once again. It was not late, maybe nine in the evening. He was thirsty now, but there was no w
ater anywhere, and no snow here. That, too, would have to wait.
The stars vanished behind a cloud bank and it became much too dark to travel, so Skye stumbled along until he found a level place, pulled the antelope and then his bedroll off of Jawbone’s packsaddle, fumbled the packsaddle free and lifted it from the little fellow’s back, released the mare, and made a cold bed in utter darkness.
He pulled the blanket and robe over him, grateful for the small nest against a wintry night. Beside him was his loaded Hawken. The nearby carcass might attract coyotes or wolves. But he would deal with that, just as he had dealt with trouble for as long as he could remember. The odd thing was, life was good in spite of every trouble that had befallen him. Soon he would be reunited with Victoria, and she would be strong and well.
twenty-nine
Skye awakened to a winter fog that obscured the whole world in a veil of white. Dew covered the top of his robe as well as the brown grasses nearby.
He sat up, feeling weary after a fitful night. He could not see the horses and knew he might have trouble finding them. There were beads of moisture on the barrel and stock of his rifle. It plainly was above freezing but not by much.
He didn’t know where he was, except in the most general way: on the north flanks of the Pryor Mountains. Somewhere above there was blue sky. These winter fogs hung low upon the land. They often didn’t burn off until afternoon. He would make his way downhill, that being the sole compass available to him this day.
He would have liked some fire to drive the aches out of him. He would like some water. He noted the beads of moisture covering the stiff carcass of the antelope. He ought to cut it up, carry what he could, rather than try to load that ungainly weight on Jawbone’s back. Always assuming he could find the colt.
He had the odd sensation of being the last living person on earth. He had never quite gotten used to being so small a speck of life in this aching wilderness.
There he was, utterly alone, without direction. Surely that was how his life was playing out. Everything he had done had been simply a struggle to survive. He rose, stared at the walls of white that sealed him in this lonely place, and saw his life in it.
In short, his whole life was as fogbound as he was this day, and he ached for some goal, some purpose, some understanding of what he should do with his life. Where was he? He didn’t even know that. He felt like roaring so he roared. He howled at the fog, he howled at the white sky. Then he laughed just because he felt like it.
“You bloody horses, fetch your blooming asses here,” he yelled into the whiteness.
He scarcely dared move. It would require only a few yards to separate him from his bedroll, his rifle, and the antelope.
He saw and heard nothing.
He walked a small circle, hoping to drive the chill and stiffness from his body, and then he set to work on the antelope, slowly sawing it open, peeling back hide, and severing slabs of meat from bone. It was slow, dirty, mean work.
He sensed the slightest shadow, looked up, and discovered Jawbone studying him and the mare quietly overseeing her wayward son.
That heartened him. He rose, let Jawbone smell his bloodied hands, and then gently stroked the rambunctious fellow.
Soon he had some meat wrapped in green hide. He loaded his few possessions onto Jawbone’s packsaddle and started downhill, scarcely knowing what he would run into a hundred feet away. It wasn’t particularly cold, but there was something about fog that chilled him and made him crazy. Still, there was nothing he could do. He had discovered long ago that surviving in wilderness required a sense of one’s own helplessness. And now he was as helpless as he ever got.
He hiked through what might have been morning, and walked down the coulee through what might have been afternoon, and then discerned naked cottonwoods looming out of the mist. Wood. Maybe if he was lucky he’d find some dry wood somewhere, and have himself a fire and some antelope meat. The land leveled and the woods thickened and he sensed he had reached bottoms, maybe even the Yellowstone River’s bottoms. But he still could not see ahead and nothing offered any clues. He found a rotted snowbank under some trees and swallowed some snow, alleviating his terrible thirst.
Now that he was on a flat he had no sense of direction; he could as easily be going in circles as heading north toward the river, which is where he wanted to go. Give him a riverbank and he could follow it somewhere. But the fog swallowed up his immediate past. He could not even tell where he had been two or three minutes earlier. And as he maneuvered around fallen logs, deadwood, and brushy thickets, he knew the chances were that he wasn’t traveling in a line at all. He was meandering.
Maybe that was a good description of his life, he thought. It was an odd thing: the fog had started him thinking about who he was, where he was going, whether he was going anywhere at all. And the best he could manage was that he had been going around in circles for years.
Then, to his astonishment, he hit the Yellowstone River. He almost stumbled into it. He could not see to the north bank. He was somewhere upstream from the Big Horn River and north of the Pryor Mountains, but that wasn’t helpful knowledge. He cupped his hands in the icy water, lifted water to his parched lips, and drank. And again and again.
Still, though he didn’t know where he was, he was gladdened. He turned west and kept the riverbank in sight, working through mist, looking now for a place where he might harvest some firewood, anything that hadn’t been soaked by cold droplets all over it. His hunger fevered him now. He needed food. He would eat most of the meat he had carved out of the antelope haunch. Meat! The sizzle of it caught his imagination.
But whenever he stopped to hunt for firewood he found only cold, wet deadwood, soaked and soaked again. He would go on as long as he could, and then try to masticate raw meat if he must, a sliver at a time. He couldn’t endure much more.
A mirage ahead stopped him cold. Wavering in the fog was the yellow light of a large fire. He must be demented. Not here. But he continued. Jawbone whickered softly. The mare pushed forward too. Yes, a fire, but he needed to be careful. Not every fire offered friendship and safety. Now he discerned figures, blurs wandering about. He worried that his moisturesoaked Hawken might be useless. He paused. It was time to take careful stock here. He might still escape if this was big trouble. He stood stock-still and squinted into the fog, trying to make sense of the blurs ahead. He held Jawbone back and the mare stopped on her own.
They were talking now and then but he could not make out the tongue. He would have to take his chances. He edged closer. The fire cast eerie orange light, though it was still daytime.
Then: “Hey, Mister Skittles, the horses are staring that way.”
“Must be something out there. Better go look, Mister Grosvenor.”
Skye yelled. “Hello the camp.”
The shadowy figures paused. “Who is it?”
“Mister Skye’s my name. I’m alone with a couple of horses.”
“Come in, then.”
He pushed ahead, almost tripped over a slippery deadwood log, and continued onto a treeless flat beside the river. Now he saw white men, maybe a dozen, waiting for him. Some had weapons in hand. They were taking no chances.
“Gents?” he said. “I’m glad to find some company.”
They looked him over, examined his colt and the weary line-backed mare, and at last studied that battered top hat. He saw them relax. One, with a neatly trimmed red beard, hiked over to Skye. “Joshua Skittles here. These are my colleagues. We’re pelt and hide dealers. And you?”
“Well, mate, I’m a loner traveling through. Trapper, hunter, fur business trader. All that.”
“You Canadian?”
“What you hear, mate, is some London in my voice. I was born there. No, if anything, I’m a man without a country.”
“Not a Yank?”
“No, not a Yank. I’ve a little antelope steak I’d be pleased to roast on that fire if you’d allow me. I’m more than a little past a meal. And there’ll be s
ome for you if you want it.”
“Help yourself, Skye. We’ve eaten.”
“I prefer Mister Skye, mate. And you’re Mister Skittles?”
“Good! I always use the polite form with my men. It’s Mister Skye, then.”
Skye was amazed. The place seemed safe enough. The men emerging from the fog were outdoor types but with a difference. These men seemed well groomed, in clean clothing, with trimmed beards and hair, and green flannel shirts that showed signs of having been dipped in a river now and then. He studied them all, not recognizing a face. They were young, except for Joshua Skittles. He met a few. Mister Oliver, Mister Parsons, Mister Richter, Mister Balsamwood, Mister Mendelhoff. There were others out there.
Some had heavy dragoon revolvers hanging from their waists, others the new Colt Navy, a sidearm Skye had barely seen.
“Where’s a good place to put the horses?” Skye asked.
“Wherever you want, Mister Skye. We’ve got draft horses here. We’re pulling some wagons. Only a couple of saddlers in this outfit.”
Skye wandered toward the wagons, curious about them. One was filled with flattened buffalo hides and robes and other peltries. One stood empty and another apparently carried gear, such as tents, mess equipment, and food. One carried little more than medium-sized casks, maybe fifteen or twenty gallons each, carefully packed in rows and wedged tight.
Traders indeed, Skye thought. There would not be a license from the Indian Bureau in this lot. He knew what was in those casks. Pure grain spirits, two hundred proof. Mixed with river water, molasses for taste, a little pepper or paprika for seasoning, and maybe a pinch of strychnine to make the tribesmen crazy, this was the most brutal of all ways to extract pelts and robes from Indians at almost no cost. Get ′em drunk for twobits, walk away with a hundred dollars of robes.
The Fire Arrow Page 15
