They were all furtively observing him.
“Mister Skye, we require that the horses be brushed before they’re harnessed,” Skittles said. “It saves us sores and cankers and trouble.”
Skye nodded, unharnessed them, found a currycomb in the supply wagon, and carefully groomed the big, friendly horses, who obviously enjoyed the attention.
This was a disciplined outfit, and it left nothing to expediency. He hated to be among a bunch of easterners, no matter how disciplined, when his own weapon lay useless until they gave him his ball and powder and caps.
Around ten in the morning Skittles pointed, and the wagons rolled along the Yellowstone.
“We’ll cross when we find a good ford, Mister Skye,” Skittles said. “There’s some Crows up on the Musselshell we plan to trade with.”
thirty-two
Skye studied his captors. It paid to know who he was dealing with. This outfit was proceeding with military discipline. Each man knew his tasks and did them. The young men functioned as a unit. They knew how to live out of doors. That was it! These were Yank soldiers, either in civilian duds or else recently discharged. He studied their faces, seeing men in their twenties and thirties.
They didn’t carry rifles but there were several in the supply wagon, and these were the new Sharps, the very model Skye had coveted. So they could deal with large threats.
These men had teamster skills too. The harnesses were mended. Axles were greased. Draft horses were carefully brushed and doctored and shod.
He studied the wagon carrying the twenty-gallon casks, no doubt of pure grain spirits. Pure alcohol is flammable, and the walls of this wagon box were thick plank able to stop a ball or an arrow. A wooden box at the rear of the wagon probably contained trading trinkets. That wagon was heavier than the others and was in the hands of a veteran teamster, whose task was to preserve the strength of the heavy draft horses dragging the payload.
Ahead, one of the men rode a saddle horse, picking out a trail along the riverbank. He was also obviously looking for a ford, and occasionally wandering out into the river, over rocky shallows, and probing channels with a long pole. He rejected several fords until he found one where the channel itself was spread wide over a gravelly flat. At no point did the water reach the horse’s hocks.
Even so, the rider poked and probed with his pole, looking for holes or surprises, and then shouted back to Skittles. They would cross here. There would be a steep rise on the far side, but otherwise a good crossing.
Skittles approached Skye. “Well, how are you faring, Mister Skye?” The question was merely a courtesy. Skittles had come to give instruction. “You’ll ride in the supply wagon,” he said.
“That brings up a point, Mister Skittles. I would have ridden my mare across, but she seems to be laden with your company’s goods. Now where in the contract does it provide that your company can use my stock?”
Skittles’s response surprised Skye. “Why, you have a point, sir. There is nothing in the contract that permits it. Mister Grosvenor and Mister Parsons were remiss, commandeering your horses. We’ll pay you a small stipend for their use. I’ll write it up as an amendment to your agreement with us.”
“I’d rather carry my own outfit on my own horses, Mister Skittles.”
“As you wish, sir. At the crossing here I’ll have your mounts unloaded, and you can put your own goods on them, and we’ll proceed without a stock contract.”
Skye pondered that. What sort of world did this man Skittles live in, where he was ruthless about commandeering Skye’s labor and expertise, but meticulous about the details involving property? What sort of men were these, who would illegally pour whiskey into vulnerable Indians and walk out with every robe and hide in the village? It was almost beyond fathoming.
When they reached Otter’s camp on the Musselshell, he would need to signal Victoria. He needed to work up a plan. He had to let her know he was captive, had to let her know what these trim-bearded and well-groomed traders were going to do. His only advantage was that Skittles had no idea Skye had connections there. He thought uneasily of the medicine horse, Jawbone, and the mare, suddenly appearing in the very village where Walks to the Top had told the people these horses would bring evil upon them.
The crossing was done in masterful fashion. Skittles sent two horsemen ahead to look for surprises. Then the teamsters drove the wagons across, never wetting a foot. Skittles brought up the rear, making sure everything was in good order.
On the north bank, Skittles talked briefly to Grosvenor, and then approached Skye.
“Mister Grosvenor will unload your horses, sir, and you may put your outfit on them if you wish.”
Skye did so, taking a moment to let Jawbone butt him. The colt had a way of lowering his big ugly head and gently pushing Skye backward. A bad habit, thought Skye, in any colt but this one. He laughed. Skittles watched dourly but said nothing about it. Skye tied the lead lines to the back of the supply wagon rather than letting his horses run free.
“You’ll be my relief man, Mister Skye. You’ll relieve each of my teamsters in turn, so they can take a break on one of the wagons.”
Skye nodded.
They set off to the north, toward what appeared to be a gradual incline out of the Yellowstone Valley, and soon were in jack pine country. The boss man seemed to know where he was going. This route to Victoria’s village was as good as any.
He felt melancholic, being a part of a trading outfit that intended to debauch Victoria’s people. And yet, maybe he ended up in this place for a purpose. He eyed the wagon carrying the grain spirits, wondering how to set it afire, how to destroy these traders’ entire stock of goods. They’d kill him quick if they had any idea what thoughts were teeming in his head: finding some way to spring a leak in a keg. Some way to ignite that pure alcohol. Some way, without being seen.
When it came his turn to relieve the teamster who was guiding the whiskey wagon, Skye began to study how that wagon was put together. This one had steel axles and wheel hubs, well greased. The barrels were wedged in and could not roll around. And around the casks was a wall of wood that would turn a ball or arrow.
“You’re admiring my wagon,” said Skittles.
“It’s stronger than the others,” Skye said.
“It has to be. The value of the goods in there can be multiplied between one and two hundred times if we succeed. The wagon is heavy, but armors the goods against disaster.”
“Am I hearing right? A hundred dollars of whiskey can be turned into ten to twenty thousand?”
“Minus expenses, Mister Skye. Your pay, your share, the cost of doing business.”
“I’m in for five months. What are your plans, sir?”
“To make us all rich, Mister Skye. It takes only half a cask of grain alcohol, properly diluted, to clean out most any village. Ahead is a fortune! Crows! Piegans! Bloods! Kainah! Flatheads! Kootenai! Assiniboine! Gros Ventres! Not to mention Bannocks and Shoshones and assorted mountain tribes.”
“What’s the procedure, mate?”
“You certainly sound like a man from the sea, Mister Skye. And I prefer to be addressed as Mister.”
“Probably Captain unless I miss my bet.”
“You missed your bet, Mister Skye.”
Skye thought the boss wasn’t going to say more, but instead he began instructing Skye. “We stay well outside of the villages, in a spot where we are in absolute control. Then we invite the chiefs in for some gifts. I have a stock of those. Then we open the trading window. One robe, one drink. After we soften them up, two robes for one drink, then three robes for a watered-down drink. Sometimes some politics are involved. An old man starts railing against us, or the young bucks get into a brawl. Shamans complain. Chiefs give orders. That requires some skills I don’t have. That’s where you’ll come in handy. You can talk; you can wiggle your fingers. You can give some outraged old man or woman a good hunting knife to quiet things down. That’s why I hired you, Mister Skye. But sooner or la
ter, we clean’em out and head for the next village. I cut a wagon loose and send it to a trader, Fort Union, Fort Sarpy, Fort Laramie, Fort Benton, whatever. And we take nothing but a receipt. So many hides, pelts, robes accepted. We head back to St. Louis with empty wagons and not a shilling on our persons. And then, after the reckoning, sir …” He smiled broadly.
They toiled up a vague trail toward higher ground. Skye could see that Skittles had outriders keeping an eye on the surrounding country.
“I see you observing how we do things, sir. You’ve been with us a day or so. Tell me, do you see any vulnerability? Things I should do?”
“I’ll know better after you make camp tonight, Mister Skittles.”
“A good answer, Mister Skye. You are thinking about the horses. Whether we make an adequate defense. How we protect them. Loss of these horses would be a disaster for us, wouldn’t it?”
Skye smiled and kept silent.
“This is the season for horse thievery, isn’t it, Mister Skye? A mild winter, that’s when all the braves are out, seeing what they can harvest. But I doubt that they’d much care for our big draft horses. Slow beasts.”
Skittles seemed to be testing him, and he rose to the challenge. “No, sir, they’d prize the big horses above all else. The horses are most valuable to them for hauling. Long ago they carried everything on their backs or the backs of dogs. Horses changed that. Big horses … maybe you’ll see how hard they’ll try for some big horses.”
Skittles smiled. “Capital, Mister Skye.”
He walked away, and Skye sensed he had passed some major testing. Skittles was no greenhorn and was familiar with the tribes and their special way of making war. Who was he? Who was this Mister Quiet, as he was called, who employed this man and this crew of ex-soldiers? And why were these men so rapacious, planning to ruin one village after another, and despoil one people after another, and yet so obsessed with rules?
Skye planned to find out. The trail had a way of opening men up, forming friendships, and revealing secrets. He needed to know fast. Two days ahead was an unsuspecting Crow village, and there was the woman he loved.
thirty-three
The closer Skittles’s trading outfit came to the Crow village on the Musselshell, the more it was observed. Skye noted distant warriors quietly watching from ridges. These were hunters or men from the village policing society, and it was their task to protect the village from surprises.
Later, as they descended a long, gradual prairie slope into the Musselshell River bottoms, several warriors he knew well approached the wagons and waited. They recognized Skye and were soon wreathed in smiles. Skye waved. That was all it took. They broke toward the camp, bearers of news.
Soon The Robber’s winter camp would know that traders were coming and Skye, husband of Many Quill Woman, was with them. Skye wondered how they would feel about all that in two or three days, after an orgy had shamed and impoverished the whole village.
He was in a spot so painful to him that he could barely imagine how to deal with it. And he had little choice, at least for the moment.
“They seem to know you, Mister Skye,” said Skittles, who had approached the wagon that Skye was teamstering.
“They do,” Skye said.
“All to the good. We’ll make camp and then go visit them.”
Skittles certainly knew the ritual. There would first be a parley with the chiefs and headmen, some gifts, maybe a smoke, and eventually the trading windows would open. The Robber would certainly want to know who had come and how Skye fit in.
Skittles took them across the shallow Musselshell, so dry this time of year that men and horses could cross without getting soaked, and then headed east, along the riverbank, where a thin blue haze just above the horizon suggested the smoke of a large village.
By now, Skye thought, Victoria would know of his presence. He wondered whether the advance guard of village police had spotted Jawbone and the mare, the very horses condemned by Walks to the Top as bad medicine.
Skittles halted his wagons at a good place perhaps a mile from the village, a meadow near firewood, close to the river, and sheltered from wind and weather. The low sun was heating the sandstone bluffs nearby and at night that pleasant heat would radiate back upon the camp.
Almost without direction, his men formed a camp, unharnessed the wagons, picketed the big draft horses and saddle horses, collected wood, and quietly unloaded a single cask of pure grain spirits, along with the paraphernalia to turn that into Indian whiskey.
People collected now. Warriors first, watching benignly, some younger women, children, a couple of headmen Skye knew. They said nothing, smiled, and Skye waved to acknowledge their presence.
“Well, Mister Skye, we appear to be ready for action. Come with me to translate. And ride your mare.”
“That’s not a good idea, sir. My horses are considered bad medicine in this village.”
“Bad medicine? How so?”
“A certain seer proclaimed that their presence was a bad omen and that I must either leave with them or the horses must be killed.”
“A marvelous superstition, Skye! All the more reason for you to ride the mare. We’ll show them we’re not bound by such nonsense.”
“Sir, it will affect your trading. And it would endanger my horses.”
“You will ride the mare, Mister Skye.”
“Sir, my mare and colt are my own property, and not leased or sold to the company, and not available to you without my consent. No contract exists concerning them. So I must decline.”
Skittles smiled quirkily at Skye, eyed the mare and Jawbone, and came to a conclusion. “It doesn’t matter, Mister Skye. You will ride the mare. And bring the colt. It is exactly the display of powers belonging only to white men that I wish to convey to them.”
“Sorry, Mister Skittles. They aren’t your property.”
Skittles smiled, and Skye saw a flash of menace in his eyes. Skye had him. The man who was so punctilious about contracts had no right to those animals. Skye was not going to risk the lives of his medicine horses.
Skittles didn’t waste a moment. “Mister Skye,” he said softly, “according to your employment contract, you can be flogged for insubordination.”
There it was.
“Thanks, mate, that answers a lot of questions. Now I know where I stand.”
“It’s Mister, sir, not mate.”
“Sorry, mate, you don’t deserve the courtesy.”
Skittles’s temper leaked from him.
Skye waited quietly. He was in for it. But with half the village watching, whatever happened here would send a message swiftly to The Robber. He glanced quickly through the gathering Crow people, looking for Victoria, and didn’t see her.
“Go ahead, mate,” he said.
There were a dozen of these men, mostly ex-soldiers if Skye had it right, and they would overwhelm him and it would hurt. But he wasn’t without a few resources. Two steps away, on his mare’s pack, was his belaying pin. Probably not a one of these Yanks knew what it was. But he thought he’d just show them what a limey tar could do with a piece of polished hickory.
Skittles eyed them, and him, and backed down. “Later, Skye,” he said. “I have a long memory and not an ounce of forgiveness.”
“Thanks for letting me know.”
Skittles collected a small sack filled with gifts, and started toward the village, hiking through rich pasture along the riverbank. Smiling children paraded beside them. Boys staged mock ambushes. The village policing society formed a rank, escorting Skye and Skittles along the river meadows. Skye knew most of them. They walked buoyantly, fulfilling their office of protectors and peacekeepers. Girls smiled and whispered.
The Crow village lay just around a bend. Its tawny buffalo-hide lodges bled smoke from blackened tops. Here were old people, wrinkled and bronzed, warming in the midday sun. A dozen women scraped fresh buffalo hides, while others were tanning and working two other hides. Smoke permeated the air, along with t
he scent of stews and other less pleasant odors.
Chief Robber’s lodge stood at the center of the arc, somewhat larger and more formidable than the others. It was decorated with brown stick figures, each symbolizing an event in the chief’s life. He was waiting there, his hair in glossy braids, his expression benign.
Skye searched anxiously for Victoria, and spotted her. She came running, her eyes bright, her cheeks swabbed with vermilion in celebration of his arrival.
“Skye!” she cried, working through the gathering crowd. “Skye!”
She burst through the police guard, threw herself into Skye’s arms, and he hugged her mightily, dancing over the ground with her, knocking his top hat to earth. She was laughing.
“God damn,” she said.
“A squaw man, Mister Skye,” Skittles said. “I should have known. Man like you wanders around out here with a squaw in every village.”
Skye drew himself up swiftly. He would not let that pass.
“This is my wife, Victoria, or Many Quill Woman of the Crows,” he said. “Victoria, this is a trader, Skittles by name.”
She caught whatever was in his voice and stared at Skittles, suddenly reserved.
Skittles laughed. “Then I’ve brought you your husband,” he responded. “All the better.”
“Skittles here is a trader, Victoria. He will trade spirits for robes.”
“Aiee! We’ll have a good time tonight!”
The Fire Arrow Page 17
