Victoria silently pulled Skye’s thick moccasins from his feet and began massaging the numb toes, which shot prickles of pain through him. He wondered what she thought of all this.
The storm abated in the night, and at dawn Skye beheld a frigid world, the sun glaring off white snow, the temperature so low it bit his face and numbed him even in the small time it took to relieve himself in the willow brush. But at least the village had come alive; it would endure whatever it was forced to endure. The cold was harder on women; it was up to them to gather wood, and they half froze for the sake of warmth. Paths began to appear from lodge to lodge, several to the river, which remained open in places; many to the brush where Skye had gone.
Within the lodge, his father-in-law greeted him pleasantly. “Your medicine was good. You counted coup. You are a good warrior.”
Skye nodded.
Victoria said, “I am sorry you went with Antelope.”
That surprised him.
“All this was seen,” said Walks Alone. “The seers knew. Yet the young men did not open their eyes or ears. It was bad medicine. It was bad to leave in haste and return in sorrow. It was wrong.”
Skye gradually realized that he had risen a few notches in their esteem, while Beckwourth had fallen. By insensible degrees, Beckwourth’s leadership would wither. Warriors would decline to go out with him. The gossips would find fault. The women would shake their heads and warn their daughters that he was a man of bad medicine. It would take mighty deeds, many coups, many horses, for Antelope Jim to regain what he had lost among his people this winter.
Skye saw the change most visibly in Victoria, who tentatively began conversing with him, always in Absaroka, usually cheerfully He had not experienced her cheerful chatter for a long time.
And, Skye thought, all this might just open the door for the Rocky Mountain Fur Company.
The next bitter-cold afternoon, the village bundled itself and followed the grieving families out to the burial scaffolds, which stood ready in the limbs of two majestic cottonwoods. The dead had been thawed and straightened out and bound with their possessions within a good buffalo robe. Their faces had been painted according to the ritual for the dead, the symbols representing their clan, their warrior society, their coups and honors.
Skye followed. He didn’t really know the dead, except as names. Yet he felt constrained to pay honor to the fallen, and braved the brutal weather, Victoria beside him. Against all temptation to hasten this business, the families took their time, enduring what had to be endured. Most of the village attended, but he saw notable absences. Except for Skye, none of the frostbitten had come, including Beckwourth, who had frozen two toes. But Stillwater represented that lodge.
The elders sang, the notes brittle in the icy air. The bundles were lifted to the scaffolds, faces to the heavens, and left there to be reunited with the nature from which they had sprung. No one spoke the names of the dead, for that would provoke the spirits of the departed. At last they trailed back to the village, Skye hobbling on aching feet.
He had fought and suffered for Victoria’s people. And now he wondered what it meant.
nineteen
Beckwourth endured his frostbitten toes, which had turned dark and painful, and pondered his fate. He was one to learn from his mistakes, and he knew now that his rash exodus with a war party, without consent of the high chiefs and seers of the village, had damaged him and his enterprise. But not seriously. The Absarokas had a native affection for any of their number who would take war to their enemies. When the dust settled, more would remember him for his daring winter raid on the Siksika than for the losses to the village. The winter keeper might even call this one Winter of Antelope’s War and record it on his buffalo robe.
He was not without resources. He had the might of the American Fur Company behind him. He had already led the Kicked-in-the-Bellies to a lively trade for pelts, leaving Skye and his employers in the dust. But fences needed mending. Throats needed lubricating. The winter had been long and hard. He would give some extravagant gifts to the chiefs and headmen, and he would entertain as never before. He liked being an important headman of the Crows. He even looked like one of them, no doubt because he was one-eighth black, the child of a white man and a quadroon woman, his delightful mother who lived quietly with his father outside St. Louis.
That bit of black blood served him ill back in that world but served him well here. If he had stayed in Missouri, he would have run into strange walls, sharp, questioning moments, swift rejections. Here it was quite the opposite. That slight tawny tint of flesh made him one of the Absaroka. Where else in the world could a man have several wives? Where else could a man lounge, hunt, make love and war, and be taken care of by adoring women? Ah, life was good in the mountains.
“Stillwater, we are going to have storytelling parties,” he said to his ever-accommodating mate. “Prepare the lodge.”
“I like parties. Will you serve spirits?”
“More than ever before, and without a tally.”
“You will have many young men, then. Only the Old Bulls”—she named a society of traditionalist elders—“will be unhappy”
“I will give them tobacco. It is the peace offering.”
“You will invite the women.”
“I always invite the women. Soon you will be my sits-beside-him wife, and you will have less work. I am going to fetch Many Quill Woman to my side.”
Stillwater smiled. “She is a good choice, but she has a sharp tongue.”
She would be a fine choice, and he could talk English with her, which was more than he could do with Stillwater or Pine Leaf or the others. He would take her from Skye. What the Briton really needed was the company of white men again. He was buffalo-witted among these people, didn’t know how to become one of them in spite of his war honors. Take his Victoria from him and he would drift away, and so would any threat from the Rocky Mountain Fur Company.
Beckwourth began his rehabilitation by hobbling to the lodges of the headmen and giving plugs of tobacco to them. These were accepted, and the ceremonial pipes that followed sealed his acceptance. The Crows were not going to abandon a valuable and well-armed war leader like Antelope. He visited Arapooish, offered tobacco as well as a good knife, and received much the same acceptance, plus a good buffalo tongue meal proffered by the chief’s several wives and daughters.
He limped to the small, isolated lodge of Red Turkey Head, and there altered his routine. He was admitted into a chill dark lodge, the fire little more than embers. But that was how the seer, ever the ascetic, preferred to live.
“Grandfather, I bring thee tobacco, and more. I bring the sorrow in my heart that I did not seek your medicine, your vision, before I led the brave young men of this village to a winter war—and defeat. I seek your counsel now.”
The old man closed his eyes a moment, accepted the plug, whittled some into the bowl of a long-stemmed red-bowled medicine pipe, found an ember, plucked it up barehanded, lit the tobacco, and puffed slowly, never saying a word. Antelope knew that things had not been settled.
But at last the shaman handed the pipe to his visitor, and Beckwourth drew the fragrant smoke. They had made peace.
“Tell me what is in your heart,” the shaman said.
“I wish to restore myself to the graces of the elders, Grandfather.”
“What else?”
“I am a trader. I wish to prosper in my trade and supply the Absaroka people with good things.”
“And?”
“I was a notable war leader among the people, and I wish to be again. I am ambitious for honors.”
“And?”
“That is all that is on my mind, Grandfather.”
“I think there may be other things.”
“I can think of none.”
“Very well. It is as you say.” He drew smoke and exhaled it and watched it drift out the smoke hole above. “Hurt no Absaroka, and be kind to guests of the People. Do no harm to rivals. Give the peopl
e nothing that would destroy their senses and honor our ways. Keep the peace of the village and put the People ahead of your own ambitions. This is all I have to say to you.”
Beckwourth found himself dismissed, and retreated from the smoky lodge to the clean bright air of a February day. The old man had all but forbidden him to continue his parties.
That very evening he invited a dozen people to his lodge and greeted them joyously as they filed in. Victoria Skye was among them, and he rejoiced. She still was the most beauteous of the Crow women, the only one who could speak his tongue, and the one with the most vital inner life, thanks to her exposure to another world.
“This is a good night,” he said when his guests had settled. “This night I will pass the cup around many times, and we will tell the best stories.”
And that was how it went. He charged nothing for the spirits, and the stories evoked laughter and sometimes controversy. That evening flew by, and he knew he would soon have the people back in the palm of his hand.
As winter decayed and the timid sun cut holes in the snow around rocks and trees, Beckwourth’s parties lubricated the life of the whole village. The Kicked-in-the-Bellies were having a grand time. Beckwourth’s trade increased, and he frequently rode up to the outpost on the Yellowstone with packs of robes and pelts and returned with more of the goods and spirits he needed to foster trade. But these were running short. He could no longer get sugar, coffee, tobacco, or blankets at the post. And Tullock told him they were out of spirits.
Even so, Beckwourth had the Crow trade locked up. He eyed Skye almost with pity those days. Skye never came to the parties, and Beckwourth discerned that the man was embarrassed by the bawdiness of the Crows. But the Briton was hunting daily, often shooting buffalo at great distances from the village, but somehow managing, along with his in-laws, to bring meat and good winter-haired hides back to the village. These hides, tanned by his wife or mother-in-law, were starting to accumulate, and he soon would have enough for a lodge of his own. Each of those thick winter robes was worth two lodge skins, and as soon as his women had finished with their preparation, Skye would have his own lodge—and probably the renewed loyalty of the exquisite Victoria.
It was time to act. Beckwourth invited her one evening when spring lay tantalizingly close and all the teeth had been pulled from the Cold Maker’s jaw. For this great occasion, Beckwourth accoutered himself in his gaudiest glory. His wife washed and oiled and braided his long black hair until it hung in two glowing cords, cleaned his best golden elkskin outfit, and quilled his new moccasins. He took a sweat to steam the winter out of his pores, and enjoyed the ferocity of the steam as well as the sacred rituals, the sagebrush and sweetgrass, the holy chants, that accompanied the ritual, for the Crows purged soul as well as body when they sweat. Then he dressed, added a red sash, tucked his two notched eagle feathers, won in mortal combat, within his blue headband, rubbed the astringent sage over his body as a perfume, and awaited her.
She arrived at sundown, as invited, and found only Stillwater and Beckwourth present.
“Ah, my dear lady, lovely woman, whose beauty rivals even Stillwater’s—welcome. Would you care for spirits?”
Victoria surveyed the almost-empty lodge—usually it was packed for Antelope’s parties—and smiled.
“And how is Skye?” he asked solicitously.
“He is much in favor. He brings the People much meat and shares it. We have many hides. The headmen invite him to smoke with them.”
“Yes, he makes progress. Good for him. But all those hides must wear you out. Tanning a robe is hard.”
“The women do it together.”
“Are you happy?”
She smiled. “I do not hear Magpie, my spirit-helper, scolding me.”
Stillwater ladled good buffalo tongue from a pot and handed the horn bowl to Victoria, and then another bowl to Beckwourth. His wife smiled again; Beckwourth always enjoyed Stillwater’s smile, which spoke of merriment within her soul and a generous spirit. He had found a good wife in her.
They ate quietly and then settled back into the multiple robes that formed cushions across the floor of the lodge and held the cold at bay.
“Many Quill Woman, we have a proposal. My beloved Stillwater and I want you to join us as my second wife.”
Victoria didn’t startle. She had been expecting something like this. She simply nodded.
“Stillwater wants company; she would love to share the cooking and cleaning and sewing with one she cherishes. I would honor you as my woman, love you both equally, and keep you well clad and comfortable. I am a rich man. I am honored in the village. I am still learning the ways of your people, but with each day I am closer to being the Absaroka you would want as your man.”
Victoria kept her counsel, and Beckwourth scarcely knew where he stood.
“Now, Skye is a good man. He toils each day. But he does not seem at home among your people. I am at home. Be my wife. Put Skye’s things outside the lodge. He will go away, for he has no one else.”
“I will think about it.”
“Well, it is good to think, but I want an answer now. Tonight we will share the robes, and I will show you that Antelope is a man who makes a wife happy.” He turned to Stillwater. “Isn’t that so?”
“Ah, you are too much for me, almost. I need to share you with her so I can have some peace.”
They laughed.
“Tonight,” Beckwourth said. “Tonight in the robes. With the next sun, you can put Skye’s things outside of your lodge.”
Victoria sighed. He was sure he had never seen a fairer beauty, perfect at the age of twenty. She set him to burning with as little as a smile. Tonight they both would burn.
She examined him and Stillwater, who was beaming with joy. He could almost see her mind racing back and forth like a rabbit between coyotes. A cauldron of anticipation boiled within him.
“I will be your wife, Antelope,” Victoria said.
twenty
She was not in the robes beside Skye that morning. He realized she hadn’t come home. He stared sharply about the lodge. His mother-in-law looked away. His sisters-in-law were not about. His father-in-law was eating.
All this was normal enough. The Crows drifted endlessly from lodge to lodge. Their children were almost interchangeable, staying at one lodge and then another, foster and real parents almost indistinguishable. But Skye didn’t like it. He arose dourly, pulled on his moccasins, drew a robe about him, and stepped into a wintry morning. An inch of fresh snow covered the older and dirtier layers. The gray sky spread gloom over a hushed landscape.
He didn’t know what to do. Doubts crawled like maggots through his soul. She had gone too far with her parties. Probably had gotten drunk on Beckwourth’s spirits. He walked to Beckwourth’s lodge, on the other side of the encampment, making tracks in snow. Smoke curled lazily from the vent. Someone was up. Stillwater was probably fixing something to eat.
He scratched politely on the hide next to the doorflap, the Indian way of knocking. No one answered for a moment, and then Beckwourth replied, his voice muffled by the lodgecover and liner. His response, in the Crow tongue, asked who was present.
“Skye.”
“Come back some other time.”
“Is Victoria there?”
A long pause.
“Yes.”
“I want to talk to her.”
“No.”
The response triggered a rage in Skye. He eyed the doorflap. It might be buffalohide but it was as sacrosanct as a locked door. It was unthinkable to violate it.
He yanked the flap aside, flooding the lodge with snowy light. Victoria was sitting in the robes, bare, her dress, leggings, and moccasins cast aside. Beckwourth wore nothing. Stillwater was at the fire, cooking.
Skye stared, pierced to his bones. “I’ll kill you,” he said to Beckwourth.
“Get out.”
But Skye didn’t. Victoria cried and dove under the robes, pulling them over her head. Stillwa
ter screamed and backed away from the fire. Skye had invaded their lodge without invitation.
“Get up and I’ll kill you,” Skye said, his fists balled. He started for Beckwourth, who whirled away. Skye followed him around the fire. He was going to catch Beckwourth and fry his hide in that fire, hold him over it until the man hurt as much as Skye hurt. Victoria screamed. Stillwater fled into the snow.
Beckwourth reached his wife’s cooking items and clamped his hand over a knife.
“We’ll do this outside,” he said.
Victoria cowered under the robes, weeping.
Skye glanced at her, grief running so deep and wide through him it was like a spring flood, sweeping all before it. “Get out,” he said to her. She drew a robe around her honey-fleshed young body and fled barefoot into the cold, wailing.
Skye had no knife. He had not expected to use one this winter dawn when he had first stepped outside.
“Get out of my lodge, Skye. We’ll settle this outside.”
The blade sliced air between them.
“I’ll kill you,” Skye said.
Beckwourth stepped toward the center, where he could stand. “For what? She’s divorcing you. She’s going to be my second wife.”
Those words stung like whiskey in a wound. “You took her. You destroyed my marriage. Step out and we’ll see who’s marrying and who’s dead.”
Beckwourth grinned. He ambled back to the robes, pulled on his breechclout, tied on his leggings, drew a soft flannel shirt over his lean frame, pulled on his moccasins, and motioned Skye out.
Skye stepped out first and didn’t give Beckwourth a chance to right himself as he crawled out the oval lodge door. He bulled into the man, throwing him into the snow. Beckwourth rolled to his feet unscathed, knife in hand. Skye found a long piece of kindling to deal with the knife—he had fought knives with a belaying pin in the Royal Navy, and now he and Beckwourth circled round and round, thrusting and parrying. The dead limb wasn’t much of a weapon, and Skye had to hold it with both hands. But he was mad, and backed Beckwourth into a crowd of silent Absarokas. Victoria wasn’t in sight.
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