“We will fill our bellies and our canteens,” I told the others. “And we will rest for a short time.” I regarded the unlikely picnic ground, and shrugged. “Anyway, make yourselves as comfortable as you can. I need to do some work on my face.”
I walked a ways downstream, so as not to foul the water for the others. And then I dropped to my knees, placed my hat to the side, and, taking a big breath, sank my head into the stream, endeavoring to loosen the mortar that clung so perniciously to my cheeks and earlobes. This procedure had no result at first – the mud was too petrified to dislodge – but at last, with repetitive dunkings, the veneer softened and began to peel away from my jowls.
“Christ almighty!”
It was a painful procedure. A goodly amount of my facial hair came off with the mask, plucking from out my jaw skin, and this was quite torturous to endure. Droplets of blood splashed in the water beneath me.
I had been working at this for a good long while when I heard a hubbub upstream. I knelt there on the stream’s edge, looking back, my face dripping water and blood all down my front.
The air felt suspicious.
Tense.
Virtue, Brownie, Puck and Genevieve were holding themselves quite still, but Sabrina was nickering and carrying on as if she had seen a snake. She reared up on her hind legs, her eyes wild with fear.
I wiped the water from my face and stood.
“Say there,” I called. “What is hap…?”
But in that instant a brown blur burst forth from the bushes with a roar.
I stepped backwards and fell into the stream.
The horses reared and bucked as the lurching bear swiped his great paw across Sabrina’s shoulder.
She screamed and staggered sideways, but in the next blink she bolted up the bank and was out of sight.
The bear started to chase after, but then he whirled about, facing the others who were now trapped between him and a thicket.
I was sitting in the stream, watching the drama, expecting to see that bear murder each of my friends one at a time.
Would that I had had a gun!
To their heroic credit, Puck and Brownie both stepped forward, their hooves swatting in the air toward the grizzly. This caused the bear to pause, as they appeared most formidable and full of business. But then the bear growled again – an unearthly roar that gave one to know that the situation was hopeless, and we all might just as well lie down and have it over with.
The bear stalked forward.
I grabbed a rock from the bottom of the stream, staggered to my feet, and tossed it with all my might at this beastly Goliath.
“Hey yah!” I yelled.
The rock bounced off the bear’s rump. He did not so much as turn to see who threw it.
That was when Virtue stepped forward. She laid her hands on both Puck’s and Brownie’s chests and pushed them back. Then she turned to face the bear.
“Oh, God!” I moaned.
She would barely provide a mouthful for this enormous monster. I could hardly watch.
But Virtue did not seem afraid in the least. And perhaps it was this fearless quality that caused the bear to tarry in his dining. What does this small creature know, he must have wondered, that makes her so brave?
I wondered the same thing myself.
Virtue was so exquisite there. Her blond hair was brushed back in a ponytail, and she wore a black dress. The grizzly raised up onto his back legs and towered above her. Long strings of drool hung down from his yellowed teeth. I fully anticipated this to be the last image I would have of Virtue before she was no more.
But the bear did not move forward; Virtue did not back down. She kept her gaze on the bear’s eyes. They stood facing one another like that for what seemed a full minute. At last, she raised her arm and pointed to the side, as if directing the creature to where she wanted him to go.
The bear let out another roar, long and loud and full of threat. His claws flashed like daggers.
Virtue thrust her arm in the air more deliberately, gesturing to the side.
The bear dropped to all fours. He glared at the girl before him.
And then, with a huff, he turned and ambled away into the brush.
I nearly pissed myself with fear and relief.
*****
I scrambled out of the stream and scuttled forward.
“Oh, Darling!”
I laughed nervously, embracing Virtue and maladroitly soaking the front of her dress.
“Oh, Virtue! I thought sure you were lost for good.” I held her at arms’ length. “Are you all of a piece?”
She smiled. “I’m fine.”
It was true; there was not a blond hair out of place on her beautiful head.
I glanced to the large hole in the thicket into which the bruin had disappeared, but felt confident that he would not return. Virtue had sent him on his merry way, with nary a taste of pilgrim on his lips. A miracle!
I turned to the others. “Puck!” I said. “Brownie! That was the purest case of intrepid manliness I have ever seen displayed by horseflesh or human either one. You boys deserve gold medals.”
They both were still breathing hard, and Puck was skittery, but Brownie, in his usual manner, remained easygoing. He bobbed his head and whinnied softly. I laid my hand on each of their necks. “Fine warriors,” I said. “I am proud to know you.”
Then at last I stepped toward Genevieve. She was visibly shaking, and the wild fear look had not yet left her eyes. So much had changed for her in these last few days, what with Turtle Dove’s departure. I suspect she felt to be fairly at a loss without her other feminine companion near her side.
“Whoa, girl.”
She was reluctant to let me touch her, and kept backing away, but then Virtue stepped past me and soothed her with a few soft words in Blackfoot. The girl laid her hand on the mare’s nose and rubbed her cheek against her own, cooing. Genevieve became calm directly. The gesture reminded me very much of Turtle Dove’s tender way.
Virtue turned to me. “We should find Sabrina.”
“Oh, yes.” I looked to the place where the panicked mare had leapt up the crumbling bank. The sand and dirt was scarred with her thrusting hoof marks to the point at which they went out of sight over the rim.
“I would not think she would wander too far afield,” I said. “If you will wait here, and put things right with the others, I will go and fetch Sabrina.”
In hindsight, which, as I have mentioned, is usually so crystal clear in its detail, I do not know now if this decision for me to go solo was ill advised, or if it was the option that would ultimately offer our contingent the best of the possible results. It certainly led me into a world of trouble. But I do shudder at contemplation of what might have happened had we all gone off together.
MY CLOTHES WERE UNCOMFORTABLY wet and baggy. As they were too big for me in the first place, I walked with my hands gripping the waistband, holding up my soaked trousers as I trudged along. My cuffs dragged in the dirt and became caked with mud. My boots squished and squirked in rhythm with my encumbered steps. I nearly turned back to get Brownie, thinking it would surely be more effectual to ride after Sabrina than to walk, but the mare’s trail was easy to follow – what with the sandy soil so distinctly churned up by her hooves – that it offered no interruption or pause, and I found myself continuing on in spite of my soggy discomfort, assuming all along that I must be getting close to where the mare was waiting.
I galumphed onward.
And onward.
“Damn!”
I was about to give up when I saw Sabrina’s tracks disappearing over a swell that dropped back down into another reach of the stream. At this point, Virtue and the others were about a mile away, wondering, I supposed, where the hell we were.
“I will check here,” I told myself, “but if Sabrina is not visible from yonder rise, I will turn back.”
When I reached the high bank and peered down – there she was – drinking at the creek. Even from
up high, I could see the four red stripes where the bear had swiped her shoulder. I knew she would be jumpy, so I let her know, by way of a soft call, that I was coming.
“Sabrina,” I cooed loudly.
She jerked up and leapt into the stream.
“Whoa, honey. Whoa. It is I, Didier.”
She turned and glared up the hill.
I waved and smiled reassuringly. “All is well, my lady. Ursus Horribilis is handily vanquished.”
She stomped at the stream, splashing and whinnying. She did not come up to me, so I climbed down to her.
“Whoa, girl,” I purred, and waded into the stream. “Everything is fine. Your friend Mister Rain is here to help.”
Although she was still considerably worked up, she let me come near, and even allowed me to stroke her neck. “Yes. Yes. Everything is fine.”
Sabrina had a light duty with the company. She carried only the saddle and kit of Turtle Dove’s deceased husband. To make her load more comfortable, it was my habit not to pull the saddle cinch too tightly, as there seemed no need without a rider. But now that saddle was all hanging off to one side, a single stirrup dragging the ground, the straps all twisted and tangled as a result of her rollicking escape from the bear.
“First, let us unburden you of this twisted mess.”
I tossed the saddlebags and bedroll onto the ground. I removed the saddle and blanket and laid it beside them. And then I peered more closely at her wounds. They were clean, straight-edged scars about a foot long, as if made with four sharp barber’s razors, and they only went as deep as her flaxen hide, not penetrating the flesh underneath. They had not bled much, even with her heart pumping so in a panic. I was relieved, and felt confident that the cuts would heal nicely, without much doctoring required on my part.
“They will merely leave a mark of character, Sabrina, enhancing your already astonishing beauty. A memento by which to start up conversation with some dandy boy stallion in your future.”
Neither Sabrina nor Genevieve had ever appreciated my attempts at a joke, and she continued this indifference to my witticisms now, snorting and, if possible for a horse, rolling her eyes. No matter. I was too relieved at her overall good health to be hurt by her manner. It was looking as if we had survived this recent peril, and that made me glad.
“Let us get back to the others,” I said. “They will surely be wondering about your wellbeing.”
I bent to pick up the saddle, but when I did, Sabrina nickered fretfully.
“What? I am merely going to put you back together.”
Her head started going up and down in that way horses do when they are agitated, and I felt perhaps my relief was premature, and that I still had some soothing to do with Sabrina before she would readily take her load.
That is when I heard a rooster crow.
“Err er Err er Errrrrrr!”
“What on earth?”
I was greatly surprised, as such fowl generally indicate domesticity and farms, and we seemed to be far from anywhere conducive to such a civilized habitation or agrarian enterprise. I peered up the far bank to where the sound was coming – nothing.
Then I heard the bark of a dog, only this time a bit off to the side.
I scratched my chin, squinting at the opposite swell, but saw neither chickens nor dogs in plain view.
I heard the sudden braying of a jackass.
I stood on the edge of the stream, holding up my pants, perplexed by this cacophony of farmyard noises sounding from a hillside populated, as far as I could see, by nothing more than a few scraggly bushes and rocks.
And that is when I heard laughter.
Raucous, belly-splitting laughter.
My bewilderment compounded, and I called out. “Who is there?”
To my astonishment, three figures materialized from out of the hillside. They appeared to rise right up out of the ground at the different points where the animals had earlier been heard. I deduced straight away that there had been no animals at all, only these three fellows here. Even with the distance, it was not difficult to tell that they were unusual variations of the human species – men, one supposed, as they were standing on two legs, but peculiar in the extreme.
“Greetings,” I called, and put on a smile. “You had me going, what with your animal sounds. That is quite a talent.”
One of them called over to the others, saying something I did not catch. It must have been quite hilarious, because they all three started in on another round of knee-slapping laughter. They seemed unable to stop.
I waited while they laughed and laughed.
They were all well muscled and tall; one could see that much even over the distance. None of them wore shirts. One had suspenders holding up his buckskin pants, but the other two just went bare-chested. Their hair was long and unkempt, never apparently having encountered a comb, and it reminded me of the matted backsides of sheep who had gone too long before shearing. They each had beards, too, long and snarled and full of burrs. Each one had a rifle hanging by a strap over his shoulder. These rifles appeared to be Hawkens, the variety so favored by trappers and buffalo hunters.
At that moment, I felt fairly confident that these boys were a good lot, just a bit weird. They certainly had a jovial nature, and their laughter did not sound malicious or suggestive of hazard. Still, I intentionally resisted shooting a gaze in the direction of Virtue and the others, just in case such a move might bring them into an unforeseen net of danger.
Still laughing, the bearded boys all three came down to meet me. Sabrina was uneasy, and kept threatening to run away. “Be calm, girl. Let us see what these bewhiskered, chortling yahoos are about.”
They waded the stream and stood close around me and the mare, somewhat looming over us because of their extraordinary height. They were all grins.
“Hello,” I said. “My name is Didier Rain – versifier, word collector, and would-be…”
The one with the suspenders cut me off and said something, once again, that I did not understand. The others laughed and wagged their heads.
I tried to smile in friendly fashion, but their rudeness had somewhat jarred my sense of etiquette.
When they stopped laughing, I tried again. “A bruin attacked my horse.” I pointed to Sabrina’s wounds. “And she led me here to this beck where, now, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” I tipped my hat.
One of them – the one with the longest beard – stepped forward and laid his long and soiled fingers on side of my face, plucking a bit of clay that still remained attached to my jaw.
“Ouch!” I said, and tried to laugh.
The bearded fellow held up the chunk of clay for his companions to examine. They looked at it and, of course, laughed.
“Thank you,” I continued. “I must have missed that particular crumb when I was at my toilet. I have no mirror, and so grooming can be problematic, as you probably know.”
They started talking amongst themselves, waving their hands and gesturing with shoulders shrugs and fluttering fingers. It was most extraordinary to watch, and even more so to hear. They seemed to be speaking a language that, as near as I could decipher, was something from before language. It was all burps and yawps and grunts and hoots. I sensed no immediate connection to any Proto-Indo-European origins, or any other origins for that matter.
“Shhh#oo*!! G^lem~,” said the suspendered one.
The other two stomped their feet and answered with what sounded like a sneeze crossed with a fart. For I can find no better way to describe it. They seemed to be discussing the situation at hand, but for all I knew, they might have been talking politics or religion.
“Say,” I asked. “From where do you fine gentlemen hail?”
They ignored me and continued up with their primordial communications. It was entertaining, if not a tad distressing, to witness. Even the most learned polyglot would have himself a time deciphering their patois.
At any rate, it unsettled Sabrina to the extent that she felt the need to
leave. And quickly! While the three characters were jabbering on, she suddenly bolted and reared away, turning on her hind legs and galloping up the same slope from where she had come earlier.
The three stopped their talking and calmly watched her go.
I looked at them, and then turned to watch the horse as well.
Sabrina seemed to be in the same state she had been when fleeing the bear, and I wondered at her panic. Did she know something that I did not? Was she savvy to some undercurrent in these men’s talk that led her to be sore afraid? Apparently so.
I watched her run, her beautiful blond mane and tail waving in the sunlight. Her muscles rippled under her skin and she was most stunning to observe. She was almost at the rim, just about to disappear over the top, when I was startled by the report of a Hawken. I flinched, but did not take my eyes from the fleeing mare. She collapsed directly.
She flipped backwards and tumbled down the slope, her legs writhing as if she were still running. She lurched and plunged down and down. When she reached bottom, she lay perfectly still.
I was stunned.
The three fellows started in cackling and hooraying beside me. When I turned their way, a cloud of blue smoke hung in the air above them. One of the trio was holding up his rifle, as if in triumph.
“Say,” I asked, attempting to smile. “Was that an absolutely necessary thing to do?”
Without taking time out from his laughing, the shooter stepped toward me. Then, by way of an answer, he raised his rifle butt into the air, bashing me hard alongside the head.
NOW I WAS USED to the state of stupor; I had visited there many times before. And as a curious fellow, I have always been intrigued that something so basic could come with so much variety. I had known drunken stupor – feverish stupor – weary stupor – falling-off-your-horse-into-the-mud stupor – the stupor of sensual arousal – as well as a pocketful of other stupors, all more or less similar in their sensation and general wooziness. But never had I been stupefied by way of the butt of a Hawken. It was largely unpleasant, causing a sensational agony in my cranial nut, and yet it did open a certain window that I might not otherwise have noticed. I peered through said window, and stepped into a scene that was bucolic and most inviting.
Delivering Virtue Page 16
