by V. J. Banis
Morton, on his way into the woods, snorted disdainfully. “A month at least,” he said. “With the water this low, we’ll be lucky we don’t have to wade the whole way.”
He disappeared into the trees. After a moment they heard him relieving himself noisily. It was the sort of thing that had caused her considerable embarrassment at first, but she had since gotten used to it. It had proven necessary to surrender a great many sensibilities to the practicalities of their circumstances. She had laughed often to herself to think how shocked Aunt Tess would be to hear the details of day-to-day living in the wilderness.
If, she had reminded herself on one occasion, there ever was an opportunity to tell Aunt Tess. Though she tried not to think of that possibility, there was always a chance that she might not return from this trip. Others had set out and not come back. Contrary to the opinion that Mister Summers still held of her, she was not entirely a fool, and she had set out with some appreciation of the risks involved.
“Do you think he’s right in his estimate?” she asked Summers. He was seated staring thoughtfully into the fire. Leblanc was already wrapped up in his bedding, apparently asleep. The Frenchman spoke only a few words of English and was scarcely more talkative in his native tongue. Indeed, in the weeks that they had been traveling together, conversation had been at a minimum. Occasionally as he paddled the birch canoe, Summers would point out something to her, naming the trees aspen, birch, and Cottonwood. Once a shadow had sped across the canoe and with a whoop of exultation he had pointed the paddle skyward at a great, glorious soaring thing: “Eagle!” he’d cried, and she was as moved by the sheer awe of his expression as by the wonder of the bird.
But he was not a man for small talk, or any talk, apparently, and she had grown accustomed to the long days of silence and her own thoughts.
“He knows this territory better than I do,” Summers replied to her question. “Trappers live on their rivers; they get to know them.”
“I haven’t said this before, but I am grateful that you decided to accompany us. I don’t think I’d have liked being alone with Mister Morton and his friend,” she confided, giving voice to something she’d been thinking for several days.
Summers’ lips curled in a faint grin. “Beginning to look a little harder at you, is he?” he asked.
“Then you’ve noticed it too?”
He shook his head. “Don’t have to see it to know,” he said.
“I don’t understand.”
The wind fanned the embers, making them suddenly glow with a false promise of renewed life. He was so long in taking up the conversation that she decided he meant to let it end.
“A man spends a long time away from women, off to himself, or with another man, he gets to missing ’em,” he began. “Only it don’t do to let himself start thinking about that sort of thing. Out here a man needs his wits about him, all of them, if he’s to survive. He starts daydreaming, thinking about his wife or his sweetheart, things he’s left behind, he gets careless. Next thing you know, he’s parted company with his scalp, or become dinner for a mountain lion. So the frontiersman, the trapper—least, the ones who live to keep on doing it—they learn not to think about those things; they shut their minds to them.”
He paused and turned his head to look at her; his face was in shadow now, impossible to read, but the timbre of his voice had changed.
“’Cept, when there’s a woman around,” he said. “It kinda makes you think, even when you don’t want to. You start remembering the way a woman feels, and the way she smells, and the taste of her. You get to thinking about the last one you laid atop of, and how you buried your face in her long hair, and—”
Morton, coming out of the trees, belched loudly. “Wish there’s some more noise in these woods,” he said, squatting across the fire from them. “Makes me nervous, the woods being too quiet. Makes me wonder who’s out there scaring off the animals.”
He glanced across the fire to find Summers and the woman staring at one another, funny like, he thought. Now what do you figure?
“You’d better go to bed,” Summers said, addressing the woman.
It was a moment before she moved, as if stirring herself from sleep.
“Yes,” was all she said. She got up and crossed to where her bedroll was lying.
CHAPTER SIX
Morton’s estimation of their traveling time proved accurate. They had reached the Platte the end of July, and August was nearly over by the time they reached the South Platte, having waded a great deal of the way.
“This is the spot,” Morton announced near the end of one day, pointing along the low river bank with its cottonwoods. “Last we saw of him he was camped right over there, between the two branches of the river. Said he was heading for some place called California.”
California. Claire’s gaze went from the desolate campsite to the western horizon, where the sun was drifting earthward. Since she’d first arrived in Virginia, she’d heard talk of this California. This was the land of fortune and precious gems; where the cities were made of gold. She remembered the ship’s captain who’d visited in Virginia, and who had actually been to California. He’d spoken of vast farms and Indians so laden with gold they were unable to walk. Yes, that was where Peter would have gone.
She turned to Summers. “Can we go there? To California, I mean?” she said.
“California? That’s clear to the other end of the land,” he said, astonished by the request. “Impossible to reach, far as I know.”
“But people have reached it,” she argued. “I’ve talked to them myself.”
“They got there by ship. Or up land from Mexico. It’s a Mexican colony. But I never heard of anybody going there overland from the States.”
“But they could have,” she said. “Who would have heard, if they didn’t come back?”
“If they didn’t come back it’s because they never made it,” he said. “No one could. It’s another thousand miles, maybe two thousand from here, and most of it mountains or desert. I’ve been in those mountains, and I’ve seen the deserts. It’s impossible.”
“We could follow Peter’s trail.”
“If there is a trail, if he actually set out for California. For all we know he changed his mind after Morton left him. If, I say, then his bones are probably bleaching in the sun somewhere between here and there.”
“Then let us find his bones,” she said.
“You’re talking about a needle in a haystack. Look,” he began, making a gesture that took in the vast expanse of land lying open before them, uncluttered by signs of man’s habitation, “Look, you think we can find one man in that?”
“I’m going to try,” she said with an air of finality.
Morton and Leblanc had already begun to set up camp. She left Summers and went to help them, collecting driftwood along the bank for a fire.
It was not until later, when they were eating fresh-caught fish before the fire, that Summers spoke to Morton of their plan.
“We’ll be leaving you here too,” he said, not looking at Claire. “Miz Denon and I are going to travel west for a ways, see if we can pick up her husband’s trail.”
“You walking?” Morton asked.
“Maybe,” Summers replied. “Unless I can swap for some horses with them Pawnee that’s been following us the last couple of days.”
Morton chuckled and said, “I wondered if I was the only one noticed that.”
Claire, who had noticed nothing untoward, gave the two men a sharp glance and instinctively looked over her shoulder at the dark lines of trees and shrubs behind them.
“Are they dangerous?” she asked, lowering her voice, though the men were speaking normally.
“Pawnee are treacherous,” Summers said, helping himself to another fish from the still sizzling skillet. “If it’d been one man or even two they’d probably have made a move before this. But four of us? They’ve been taking their time, sizing us up.”
“We traded with a village not
far from here,” Morton said. “Collected some good beaver skins, traded them beads and blankets.”
“Think they’ll trade with you again?” Summers asked.
Morton and Leblanc conferred briefly in French, Morton’s frequently punctuated by entire phrases in English, which the little French Canadian took in stride.
“They named us their brothers,” Morton said to the others. “Said we was to feel welcome to their village any time. Course, with Pawnee, that could mean they was waiting to skin us.”
Summers nodded grimly. “Let’s find their village tomorrow and see,” he said.
* * * * * * *
The Pawnee village at which Morton and Leblanc had previously traded lay a bit less than three miles up the north branch of the Platte. The foursome approached it on foot, having hidden their canoes and most of their supplies among the cottonwoods by the river. They carried with them little more than their guns and the items they’d brought for trading: more beads, blankets, some trivial pieces of silver from Germany.
They traveled single file, Morton leading the way followed by his partner, and then Claire and Summers bringing up the rear.
Though he considered they were in little danger of ambush, since they were so obviously on their way to the village, Summers nevertheless kept a sharp eye out as they went.
At the same time he was mulling over a brief conversation he’d had with Morton shortly before, while they’d been engaged in storing their belongings.
“I want you to bargain with those Indians for three horses instead of two,” Morton had said unexpectedly.
“What for?” was Summers’ surprised reply.
“Leblanc and I been talking. He’s fixing to travel a bit farther up the river, find himself a place to camp until winter. Beaver furs no good in the summer, you gotta take them in the winter.”
“What about you?”
Morton gave what was intended as a disarmingly friendly grin, revealing the considerable spaces between his few teeth. “I figured maybe I’d head west with you and the lady,” he said.
Summers remained unimpressed by the grin. “Why?” he asked bluntly.
Morton’s glance flicked like a whip in the direction of Claire Denon and as quickly back again. “Never saw that part of the country, figured this’d be a good chance to size it up. ’Sides, can’t say I’m much of a mind to sit around a camp waiting for winter. I’d as leave head back down to St. Louis.”
“Maybe that’s what you ought to do.”
Morton ignored the suggestion. “So I thought about it, figured there’s no telling what you might be getting into, but three people ought to be lots safer than two, specially when one of them two’s a woman.”
Summers, busy tying together the branches of two small shrubs to better conceal their packs, made no reply, and after a moment Morton had gone about his own business.
The conversation had lingered in Summers’ mind, however. A decision would have to be reached before he began bargaining with the Pawnee. He did not question the trapper’s capabilities; there had been ample opportunities thus far on the trip for the man to demonstrate those. And Morton had made a telling point: they were setting out into uncharted and undeniably dangerous territory, he and a woman. Claire Denon had proven herself surprisingly competent, far tougher than her frail appearance had at first suggested. There had been none of the complaining and helplessness he’d expected; indeed, he’d traveled with men less valiant than she.
Morton was right. It would be a good thing to have another man along, particularly one who was strong and capable, and accustomed to living in the wilderness.
The trouble was he didn’t trust the man. Even without that glance in Claire’s direction, he’d be a fool not to know that Morton was interested in her.
Well, and what of it? he asked himself irritably. The Englishwoman had set out on this trip of her own free choice. She had been warned it was dangerous. Surely she ought to figure out for herself that not the least of her worries was being ravaged by men. Who was to say she wouldn’t get exactly what she asked for? And for all he knew, maybe she was hoping something like that would happen.
No. That thought had no sooner crossed his mind than he rejected it. She was, if nothing else, a lady. It didn’t take any special insight to see that. Besides, he had the impression she was afraid of Morton. It was, he thought, the only reason she’d been friendly toward himself, sort of keeping him between herself and the trapper, rightly figuring that he had no interest in her.
But it wasn’t only on her behalf that Summers distrusted the trapper. Summers, the solitary plainsman, trusted few men. Some he trusted even less than others. Morton belonged to this latter group. The man would scalp them quicker than any Indian if he thought it would be to his profit. They could count on him just as far as it was to his advantage to be an ally, and not a step further.
It was always like that when he let himself get involved with other people, he told himself grimly. He had no particular grudge against his fellow man, but experience had taught him to rely on himself and not on others. He was most comfortable with his own company. When he grew low on supplies, or began to itch for the relief a woman could provide, he headed for St. Louis or one of the other outposts, but he could not help seeing the stains that the white man left on the wilderness as he settled westward. It bothered him in a way he had never tried to articulate and soon, in a week or a month perhaps, he was ready to go again. Had the Englishwoman not come along when she did with her preposterous request, he would soon have set out anyway for somewhere, it hardly mattered where, so long as it was west. For he understood, as few men who used the term did, that “the west” was not merely a direction. It was a world, a life apart from that other, “civilized” life.
He liked to ride or walk across that great open plain that lay like a woman’s belly between the far mountains and the fertile rivers of the east. He liked to strip naked, to feel the caresses of the sun, that most ardent of all lovers, on his flesh; to bathe in the cold clear waters of mountain streams; to lie on his back at night and contemplate the unfathomable stars of the western night.
He was not a philosophical nor religious man, but like the Indians, whose blood shared his veins with that of an Englishman, he sensed a something, call it a Presence, that was everywhere in nature—in the tree, in the mountain, in the hawk and the deer. A harmony that rang like a tolling bell in his soul when he breathed the free untainted air of the great west.
Long ago he had dreamed of finding someone who felt as he did, someone to whom he could voice these crazy feelings. He had since then come to the conclusion that there was no one who shared his viewpoints, and he had become even more of a solitary man.
Something moved in the brush just to their right. It was a Pawnee, he was sure of it. His long rifle was cocked, held before him so that he could swing it up in an instant and fire, but he was sure the Pawnees would let them enter the village, if only out of curiosity. This would no doubt be the first time they had seen a white woman. White men were few enough in these parts, but the yellow-haired Englishwoman must be causing quite a stir.
He watched Claire Denon traversing the path in front of him. She had acquired a nice stride since they’d set out on this journey, long, graceful, easy of the hip. She’d thinned down a bit, but contrarily it made her look less fragile.
He was suddenly surprised with himself to discover that he was thinking of her sexually, imagining her moving her tail that way under a man.
He laughed at himself and thrust the thought aside. She would make a nice piece for some man, but not for him. Now if she were only fleshed out a bit more generously and weren’t so much of a bitch....
The three Indian braves appeared in their path so abruptly that Morton nearly collided with the closest of them. Summers just had time to realize he had broken his own rule against daydreaming when he ought to have been paying full attention before the three others had stepped onto the path behind him, and he saw that th
ey were surrounded.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Stay calm,” Morton said. “If they’d meant to kill us they wouldn’t have introduced themselves first.”
One of the braves approached Claire. Summers moved faster. Striding to her and putting one arm about her, he pulled her against him in an unmistakable gesture of possession.
The Indian paused, looking from one to the other. Then he reached with one hand for her golden hair.
“Let him touch it,” Summers told her in a low voice.
She resisted the impulse to draw away from the outstretched hand. He touched her hair lightly, stroking it with the mere tips of his fingers. Grinning, he looked over his shoulder and said something to his companions. One of them came to join him, and he too had to touch her hair. Summers said something sharply in an Indian dialect, and the Indians’ grins vanished. They began a dialogue with him, speaking in short, guttural barks.
The news last night that Indians were watching them, had in fact been following them for days, had cost Claire a bad night. She had lain awake for hours, imagining them on the verge of attack, though the men had apparently had no such concern.
Now for the first time she had the opportunity of observing these “savages” she had heard so much about. They were certainly savage looking, with fierce dark eyes and long black hair. They wore elk skin trousers and were naked from the waist up, though two of them somewhat incongruously wore strands of cheap glass beads about their necks.
Of course there was no denying they were dangerous. Only one of them carried a gun, but the others were armed with bows and arrows at the ready. Still there had been something rather disarming in the childlike awe with which they had wanted to touch her hair. It hadn’t occurred to her until now how rare a sight blonde hair must be.
Morton had now come back to join in the conversation. Something, it seemed, was being agreed upon, because everyone had begun to nod their heads, and the Indian who had first approached her had begun to grin again.
“They’re going to take us to their village,” Summers said to her. When she started to move ahead of him, he caught hold of her hand and held her at his side. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be my woman for the time being.”
