One day the Crows left to hunt buffalo around the Yellowstone, and the next day the Shoshones and some Nez Perce pulled out for the Snake country, while a few Sioux and even a few Cheyennes headed south or east. These enemies and rivals of the Crows and Shoshones respected the neutrality of the trade fair—up to a point. They would gladly butcher each other a mile from the Popo Agie. Victoria watched them leave, her face pinched and her thoughts unfathomable. She and Skye had all but ceased talking, and he had long since been feeding himself because she was no longer around to cook for him.
He watched her angrily. She would take off after the Crows, and good riddance. He didn’t need her anyway. Bloody woman. He’d get another. Lots of pretty Indian girls just itching to make a lodge with a white trapper. One was as good as another.
But he didn’t really believe that. Victoria’s glares and silences—and furtive tears—tore Skye to bits. He knew she was staying on until he made a decision one way or another. But the moment he chose to lead a brigade, she’d be off to her people and that would be the last he’d ever see of her.
One evening he climbed a foothill to think. The air was thick with smoke from forest and grass fires somewhere else—the summer had turned into a scorcher—and he stared into a blood-red setting sun that looked angry and ominous. He already knew what he would do, and it desolated him. He hated being put into this dilemma. Hated his easy surrender. But he was sour on the whole mountain fraternity with all its adolescent braggadocio. Maybe they were all brave and daring men, but they were mostly ignorant, narrow, and mean, too, most of them meaner than the limey jack-tars he’d rubbed shoulders with, and they were a mean lot.
He came off the hill bathed in red, the blood of the sun dripping off him, and headed for Tom Fitzpatrick, who was smoking a pipe, his back befriending a shaggy cottonwood.
“Ah, mate, you mind if I sit and talk?”
Broken Hand, as the world knew him, nodded Skye to join him. “It’s a fair night,” Fitzpatrick said. “One of the last, I imagine. Smith, Jackson, and Sublette are taking one hundred ninety packs of beaver to St. Louis next week. Milt, Bridger, and I’ll head north with a strong brigade. Fraeb and Gervais’ll head south.” He turned. “You’ve been acting like a bee stung your butt.”
“I’m giving up the company.”
That did surprise Fitzpatrick. “A man’s reasons are his own, I suppose.”
“I’ll lose Victoria if I lead a brigade.”
Fitzpatrick nodded, sucked his briar pipe, and studied the dying sun. “Where’ll you go?” he asked at last.
“Her people.”
“Well, now, this is luck. We’re thinking to send you up the Yellowstone with a brigade. We thought with your connections ye’d do a deal of trading with the Crows. Maybe you’d better think this over.”
“I did, sir. I’d bloody well lose her.”
“I’ll confide something to you. Beaver pelts can earn a fortune, and we’re facing tough competition from rich men—Pratte, Berthold, Chouteau—who bought the western division of the American Fur Company from John Jacob Astor. They have a brigade in the field this summer, up north. Led by two experienced men, Henry Vanderburgh and Andrew Drips. They’re building a post—Fort Floyd—at the confluence of the Yellowstone and the Missouri—a perfect spot to control the mountain trade. And they’re planning another on the Yellowstone and the Big Horn. That’ll be for the Crow trade. Just put a canoe into water here and you’d end up there. And that’s not all, Skye. Our friend Jim Beckwourth—he’s a headman with the Crows now, for American Fur. They’re paying him a reg’lar salary to steer the Crow trade to that outfit. We’d hoped your brigade could stem that.”
“I’ve made up my mind.”
Fitzpatrick grumbled impatiently. “How much do you owe the company?”
“Over three hundred, sir. But I’m outfitted. I thought I’d pay it off next summer with peltries. Victoria tans a fine robe. I don’t much like trapping, but I’d get it paid off.”
“Suppose we were to employ you to steer business our way. Keep it away from Beckwourth. Bring the Crows to us next summer—Powder River it’ll be, and that’s Crow country. Take a small trading outfit with you.”
“It won’t be easy to match Beckwourth, sir. He’s been in the mountains since the Ashley expeditions.”
“It’s worth a try. AFC’s paying Beckwourth—we know that. Probably three hundred to steer the tribe their way. They’ve also given him a trading outfit. He’s picking up pelts. You and your lady’d be worth the same to us.”
“You’d trust me?”
“The mountains bring out a man’s nature.”
“Beckwourth’s a chief, I hear.”
Fitzpatrick nodded. “That’s right. But you’re married to a Crow from a prominent family. I’ll have to talk this over with the partners. I think it’d be a good move to put you there.”
“It wouldn’t be easy. American Fur’s building posts, and Beckwourth can get trade goods whenever he needs them. We can supply you only once a year. We’d give you a small outfit—mostly shot and powder, arrow points, knives, awls—things you could carry on a single packhorse. But mostly we would want you to become an important man among them, win their loyalties, and bring them to us next summer, laden with beaver and robes for trading. In other words, beat Beckwourth at his own game. Do whatever it takes, compete on any terms.”
“Well, there might be something in it. I’ll talk to Victoria. Maybe she’ll like the idea.”
“A word of caution, Skye. American Fur’s a rough outfit. They’ll do anything to whip you. Maybe even resort to violence. Blame you for whatever goes wrong. Beckwourth’s certainly capable of ruining you. You’ll be facing a gifted man, a fine warrior, cunning and smart—and a man without scruples.”
That troubled Skye. “I have scruples, sir.”
“Best forget ’em.”
“No, I can’t do that. I live by my ideals. I’ll not do anything dishonorable.”
“No one’s askin’ you to.”
“That’s got to be understood. Let me say it plain. My word is my bond. I’ll not lie, cheat, slander, steal, or kill. I’m a peaceable man and I hate war. Especially for the sake of commerce. If Beckwourth whips me by resorting to those things, then I’ll be whipped. There are deeds I won’t do, not for anything. But I think I can whip American Fur. And I think the Crows would like a man who lives by his own standards. If that’s not enough—then I’m not your man.”
Fitzpatrick stared a long while and then shrugged. “The mountains are a hard place,” he said. “Your rules don’t apply.”
“My rules apply to me.”
Fitzpatrick grinned suddenly. “I like that, Mister Skye. I like that indeed. I’ll talk to the partners.”
Thus, willy-nilly, a deal was forged. Victoria didn’t object at all. Now she’d have Skye in her village, among her people, and she’d still be able to get blankets and beads and knives and hatchets.
“Dammit, Skye, this is good,” she said, looking cheerful for the first time in months. He knew, and rejoiced privately, that she couldn’t bear to leave him, either, just as he couldn’t bear to leave her, and this new position was a miracle and a cause for rejoicing.
Then one austere August day, Skye watched the old partners, the masterful Diah Smith, Bill Sublette, and Davey Jackson, start a large pack train eastward. The next day he watched Fraeb and Gervais head toward South Park and the high Rockies. And then Bridger, Fitzpatrick, and Milt Sublette leave for the Blackfoot country with a powerful brigade two hundred strong.
He and Victoria loaded their lodge onto a travois, burdened two packhorses, saddled two riding horses, and headed home, and all the while Victoria laughed and babbled like a merry brook.
three
Victoria, Many Quill Woman, rejoiced. The pony beneath her was taking her home.
Home to her father, Walks Alone.
Home to her little mother, Digs the Roots.
Home to her brother Arrow, and to
her sisters, Makes the Robe and Rosebud.
Home to her people, to the land of plenty, where buffalo and elk and deer abounded, where clear cold water dashed from the mountains.
Home to the center of the world, which the Absaroka would possess forever.
Home to her father’s brother Arapooish, Rotten Belly, great chief of the People.
Home to her own tongue, which tripped lightly through her soul as she rode.
She could not contain her gaiety, and laughed and mumbled as she and Skye traveled through a cloudless August day. She felt weightless, afloat upon a gauzy cloud, no burden at all upon the ugly little pony. She felt lithe and young, her body perfect, her spirit hovering above her, like her counselor, Magpie, who flew along beside her, an ever-present guide.
Her man seemed more somber. He took them down the Wind River, but well to the west of the river bottoms to avoid dangers along that great artery. Soon they would reach the Owl Mountains, where the river vanished into an impassible red-rock canyon, and there they would detour over the crest of the mountains. When they reached the river again it would have a new name, the Big Horn, and it would be nestled in red and yellow rock.
She glanced boldly at Skye. He rode peaceably, almost carelessly, but she knew it was an illusion. His eyes never ceased their study of distant horizons, the heavens, rocks and barriers and gulches that might conceal danger. He took in all of that, weighing and assessing. In their four years of marriage, he had transformed himself from a man who rode boats upon the big waters to a seasoned and careful warrior. His new Hawken rifle rested in its quilled sheath, always at hand. But that was nothing compared to the terrible bear claw necklace he wore upon his chest, the ensign of his medicine and power.
She examined Skye, finding satisfaction in the sight of him. She especially admired his nose. Was there ever such a heroic nose? He wore his long hair gathered into a ponytail, the way of the warrior, and upon his head was the medicine hat that had become his Sacred Way—a top hat, the pale men called it, black felt, scuffed and battered, with a small brim below it.
He paused on a slope, stopping just under the ridge so he could peer ahead without being seen. This heartened her, this innate caution. He would deliver them safely to the Yellowstone country and the village of her people. This time he lifted a hand, and she stopped her pony at once. Behind her, the packhorses stopped too. He had seen something. She slid off and walked to where he sat his horse, just below ridge level. She peered east and saw what he had seen, the dust of many horses on the river, heading north, their own direction. A large and fast-moving party, without lodges. Warriors or hunters. And they would have vedettes to either side, probably one very close.
Not Crows. She knew where her people were. The Absarokas at the rendezvous had told her. She and Skye could stay put, probably unseen in this dry drainage, but if the vedettes cut their trail, they would not be safe. She looked at Skye anxiously. He watched and waited, squinting into the noonday glare, and eventually he pointed. To the west, a small group of horsemen—mere black dots—rode through the dry sagebrush-shot country. She and her man were between the main body and the sentinels.
“Nothing to do but go powwow with ’em,” Skye said. “I’ll fetch some tobacco.”
She watched Skye ride back to the gray packhorse, dismount, and dig through the panniers. Tobacco came in various forms, the most common being the plug, or twist. He pulled out several.
Moments later they topped the ridge and were instantly spotted. Skye led her directly toward the smaller group of riders, while dread stole through her. These were not pale men, but one or another of the Peoples. If Siksika, or Blackfeet, she and Skye were doomed to a slow death by torture. But they were far from the land of the Siksika, and more likely these were Sioux or Cheyenne, who might or might not torment them.
They met on a windy hilltop. Four warriors, none young; small, wiry, lithe, broad faced, wearing only breechclouts—and war honors, eagle feathers in their jet hair. But they weren’t painted for war, not displaying their personal medicine. None had a rifle. The bows of three remained unstrung, but the fourth—the headman, apparently—carried a strung bow with a nocked arrow. He could kill her husband before Skye had his Hawken half out of its sheath.
She didn’t know who these people were. Not Sioux or Cheyenne. Maybe Arapaho or Ute, far north of their usual haunts. Maybe going to make war on her Absaroka. She glared at them disdainfully, letting them know what she thought.
But her man made the peace sign and offered a twist of tobacco—sealing the peace, if accepted—to the leader. The burly warrior studied Skye, glanced briefly at her, and then focused on Skye’s magnificent bear claw necklace, given him four winters earlier by Red Turkey Head. The medicine necklace told the world his was the power of the grizzly bear.
The elder took the proffered twist of tobacco. Skye, who had learned something of the finger language, asked them who they were. Victoria watched closely, as puzzled as Skye.
Pawnee. Ancient enemies of the Sioux. Friends of white men. Friends of the Absaroka, sometimes.
“Aiee! Pawnee, Skye,” she exclaimed. “Goddamn!”
He didn’t know much about them, so she explained that these people lived to the southeast, along the Platte River, and hunted buffalo. Maybe friends—if they didn’t steal everything in sight.
“I never met one,” Skye replied. He turned to the elder and signed for a smoke. But the elder, his eye upon the distant column, motioned Skye to come. They would join the main body.
Reluctantly, they headed for the distant ribbon of water. They were alive, anyway, and no one had stolen anything—yet.
“I never was much good with the sign language. Maybe they’ve got someone we can talk to,” he said to her. “Tell me about these Pawnees.”
She didn’t know much, but she did remember one thing: they worshiped the Morning Star, and every year they captured a maiden from another tribe and ritually sacrificed her to Morning Star. She glared at these burly Plains people, suddenly cold within. She’d kill a few before they laid hands on her. She didn’t know of any Absaroka girls who had been sacrificed, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any.
Before Sun had gone much farther through the sky, they reached the main body—perhaps fifty warriors, traveling with many packhorses and travois laden with good robes and peltries.
Their arrival halted the procession, and all the Pawnees crowded around. They were good horsemen and rode spirited animals. None seemed menacing to her; she felt more at home in any Indian camp than among the pale men.
Skye was taken to their chief, a lean, corded giant whose experience of war was etched in the scars on his body—an ugly welt across a forearm, another across his ribs. Then a mixed-blood warrior pushed through. He had brown hair and gray eyes, and a freckled, mottled flesh.
“Le Duc,” he said, and began talking in the tongue of the Creoles. Skye shook his head. But Le Duc knew a few of Skye’s words, and so they communicated.
“Cut Nose,” Le Duc said, pointing to the headman. “Pawnee war chief. Me, Antoine Le Duc, Le Duc fils, engagé.”
“Barnaby Skye, Victoria—Many Quill Woman, Absaroka,” Skye replied. All the while, Cut Nose listened and waited for translations. In time they got the story. These Pawnees had come to trade robes for rifles, blankets, pots, and knives at the pale men’s fair but arrived too late, and now were looking for the pale men. And they had decided to visit the Absaroka as long as they were so far from their villages. And maybe steal some Sioux ponies.
“We are going to the Absaroka. The Kicked-in-the-Bellies. Come with us,” Skye signaled.
Cut Nose wanted to know where the traders had gone.
“Back east, with many pelts. Some north to the Missouri—Big River—to trap. Some south, to the Wall of Mountains, to trap.”
Le Duc explained all that.
“We will visit Arapooish, Rotten Belly,” Cut Nose said. “You are our friends, our brothers. You are welcome in our camp. We will
smoke the pipe of friendship tonight. We are friends of the pale men, ’Mericans, traders. Yes, you, us, we are like two stars side by side.”
Skye didn’t like it. Victoria could tell that. Her man was a lone bear. But there was nothing to do but join these Pawnees on their adventure into distant lands.
She would be the lone woman in camp. She eyed the Pawnees mistrustfully. Who knew what such strange men would do? Skye would protect her, if he didn’t start sipping from his jug.
Pawnees along with the Skyes started north again, finding the trail that would take them over the Owl Mountains. The trail led far west of the place where the river vanished into a sinister gorge, up through arid land dotted with juniper that seemed to grow in rawboned rock. They descended all afternoon through red-rock country, her own Absaroka land, the Big Horn basin, and would camp that evening at a famous hot spring where her people had come for healing and prayers. But she didn’t like it. She would have liked to soak in the hot water with Skye, but now with all these Pawnees around they’d just set up a lodge. There wasn’t much game around the spring, and she hoped the damned Pawnees had some meat.
They made camp at dusk in a green valley girt with red rock and junipers. She didn’t like the look of the thunderclouds building over the mountains, so she set up the lodge while Skye took the horses to the nearest pasture and hobbled them. Grass was thin there. Something crabbed at her; unruly suspicions, dark doubts. She dropped the trading packs just inside the lodge door.
The Pawnees cooked a deer and shared the meat. Some of them slid into the healing hot waters as dark descended. She didn’t like any of this, but Skye seemed happy.
Later, long after she and Skye had gone to their robes, she awakened with a start. She’d been hearing something and then nothing. She poked her head out of the lodge. The clouds had dissipated and a quarter moon cast pale light—on nothing. The Pawnees were gone. She stalked the camp, finding not a trace of them, and knew, suddenly, that the Skye horses would be gone, too. Along with their packs—everything, including the trade items entrusted to them by Broken Hand Fitzpatrick.
Dark Passage Page 2
