Dark Passage

by Richard S. Wheeler

  Berger talked at length to Little Crow, the chief of this band. He seemed more amiable than many of his younger warriors, who apparently considered the traders disposable now that the post had been largely emptied of the miraculous goods white men traded. Little Crow genially announced that his people would summer west of the Sweet Grass Hills where the buffalo were thick, and maybe raid the cowardly Crows on Elk River—their name for the Yellowstone—for horses, or join the Bloods on a joint venture southward for plunder. The medicine was good; the seers were brimming with fierce optimism; the weather was fine, the land full of grass to fatten ponies; and all the young men were itching for honors. Who could resist? The fierce Blackfeet were the best of the best on the plains and would take many scalps, capture many children and women, and torture hundreds of Crows to death, the sound of their howling proof of their cowardly natures.

  They left after three days, and Berger decided it was time to head down the river. He elected to build two large bullboats to carry his packs of fur to the fort, one man in each boat. Some additional furs would go back upon Skye’s packhorse with Skye. Berger set Skye to cutting willow saplings for the bullboats, while he and Arquette prepared a stack of raw buffalohides by trimming the edges. All this required brutal toil. Skye buried the ends of the saplings in the earth, forming an elongated circle, and then bent them over and lashed them together into a framework that looked like an inverted bowl. The hides, properly dressed with fat, sewn tight, and sealed with pitch and tallow, would form the skin of the bullboats and would last long enough in the water to get the furs and traders to Fort Union. Maybe. The light boats were treacherous, hard to maneuver, and likely to capsize in white water.

  Rain stopped the work. It came in cold gusts, sheets of icy water that drenched a man and set him to shivering. They swiftly ran out of firewood, and Skye was elected to cut some, which he did between spring showers, often getting soaked in the process. Arquette nursed catarrh, while Berger coughed and cursed, and Skye wrestled with bilious fever between his cold bouts of woodcutting. But he persisted. His three months as an engagé for American Fur Company were drawing to a close, and soon sixty dollars would be applied to his debt to Rocky Mountain Fur.

  The only good thing about living among the dangerous Blackfeet was that time flew. Danger honed a keen edge on every minute, and he scarcely thought about Victoria, or loss, or the emptiness of his future. It was enough to survive among tribesmen who were itching to take his scalp and leave him soaking in his blood until wild creatures ate his meat and plucked out his eyes. But when he did think about her, he knew that his pain had not lessened, love had not dwindled, and his anger at her and at Beckwourth had not abated. Time had healed nothing.

  By early June they were able to work on the bullboats again. Time was growing short. They needed to reach Fort Union with the season’s returns by July 1, when the keelboat was due from St. Louis and scheduled to load and turn around as fast as possible. They finished the sturdy, flexible frame of one boat and began lashing the hides together with thong and fitting them over the frame. This too was hard work. The seams, including every hole made by an awl, needed to be caulked with pitch drawn from a pine, and the hides soaked in tallow to waterproof them. They finished one boat, and it looked so fragile and makeshift that Skye, the seaman, wondered whether it would survive a mile of water. They began the second, only to discover they lacked hides and would have to find and skin some buffalo. That or build a log raft, which was itself a risky way to carry the hides. Rafts tipped over in rough water, soaked the hides, and resulted in even more disaster than bullboats.

  So Arquette and Skye hunted buffalo while Berger guarded the post through the high sweet days of June. The hunt was fruitless. Buffalo had long since gathered into great migratory herds and drifted off to prime grasslands to calve, fatten, rub off ticks and fleas on any useful tree, wallow in mud puddles to clean their hides of varmints, and fight off the wolves that silently shadowed the herds, looking for the injured, the old, the isolated calf.

  Berger cursed his subordinates for their barren efforts and decided on another expedient: he would trade for packhorses and send the furs back overland, two men with horses, while he navigated with the sole bullboat. There wasn’t much left to trade, but he figured he could get some horses out of what was left. One rifle—his own—would get him half a dozen horses with packsaddles thrown in. All he had to do was find some Blackfeet.

  twenty—eight

  Many Quill Woman—the name Victoria was fading fast—looked for a sign as the Absarokas rode past the Sweet Grass Hills. She sensed that those gloomy forested slopes were the habitation of the dead, the place where the spirits of the Siksika came to live as shades in the other world. The peoples of the plains knew each others’ stories. In her village were two captive Blackfeet women who had become wives, and several captured children who would be raised as Absarokas. In the villages of the Siksika, the Lakota, the Cheyenne, and other tribes there were Crow women, sometimes wives, more often slaves. And so the stories were shared, and each tribe well knew the sacred rites of the others.

  She looked for the spirits but saw none. Maybe she was wrong. The Siksika believed the spirits of their dead went to the Sand Hills to wander forever—but maybe these weren’t the Sand Hills. These hills rose in utter isolation, surrounded by emptiness, and spread night out upon the sunny plains. A place like that deserved respect. She spoke gently to the grandfathers and grandmothers whose shades surely resided there. So many of them; others walking the spirit trail, arriving each day. She felt the coldness of death pass through her, and hurried her pony westward, eager to put the hills behind her. This was not a good land, like that of the Absarokas.

  The others in her war party eyed the hills somberly. If these hills weren’t the abode of the Siksika dead, they certainly should be. Maybe some of the spirits who resided there had been sent to this place by Absaroka arrows and lances and war clubs. This was not a good place for an Absaroka to be, with the eyes of the spirits upon them, ever watchful.

  She was having misgivings about coming with Beckwourth. She wasn’t afraid of death, like the yellow eyes. Life was short. One could die for the People and be remembered. But she wasn’t a warrior and knew little of the ways of death—except for what the one who had been her man had taught her. In this kind of land, where there was no place to hide, even a horse holder was as vulnerable as a warrior who crept into a Siksika camp.

  This was not a good land—it lay open and barren and without history, and the white wall of the mountains in the hazy west rose like the end of the world. Her Absaroka world had no end, but this Siksika world stopped in the west. This was a cold land, too, and there was no place to hide from the cold. Even now, well into spring, cold gusts whirled down off the distant mountains and sliced heat out of her lithe body.

  The others rode quietly, saying nothing, their thoughts upon war, their silences profound. Pine Leaf rode apart, isolated, small, odd, like a doll. Many Quill Woman had never seen the woman warrior like this, and now she understood the sacredness of Pine Leaf’s vows to kill Siksika. Something flat and hard emanated from the woman warrior here in the land of her enemies.

  Many Quill Woman summoned her courage. She had seen no magpies this entire trip. Usually they flocked about, raucously following the passage of horses and men. She knew her spirit-helper had turned her face away. Bad medicine. But Many Quill Woman knew she would continue. She would ride with Beckwourth even with bad medicine. That was how much she enjoyed her new man.

  That’s what she told herself, anyway. But in softer moments, doubt flooded her, fear and a cold dread. Even now, they might be observed. Or Sitting Man might have given away their passage. She thought Beckwourth should have commanded Sitting Man to come along and not chase after the hunters. But now it was too late. She doubted that any of them would see Sitting Man again.

  Black-bottomed clouds spun off the distant mountains and rolled over the prairie like dark stones, bringing wi
th them the little death of the sun. She did not like the clouds or this land, and wondered whether the Absaroka warriors did. Even Beckwourth had grown quiet, the loquacious storyteller and party-giver oddly solemn. How could they steal horses when there was no place to hide? Well, it worked both ways. If there was no place for Absaroka to hide, then there was no place for the Siksika to hide either.

  But nothing disturbed their passage. They rode through a quietness that began to grate on her. Would not even the west wind make a noise? Was this the land of the dead? Twilight settled over them, veiling their passage, shrouding them in the funeral clothing of night. They would halt at some creek, water and graze the ponies, and sleep without a fire, huddle under their horses if it rained, and then arise to hunt their prey before dawn.

  Beckwourth led them into a shallow draw running a trickle of water. The draw put them well under the surface of the plain and protected them from the all-seeing eyes of the Siksika. Maybe with the next sun they would find the Bloods, the Kainah, and then they would wait quietly for the cloak of another night to hide them when they filtered into the herds and stole fine fat ponies. They were well concealed; there would be no need for guards this night, hidden in a crease of the prairie.

  They picketed their ponies on stakes. Victoria employed the line she had braided out of much of her robe. Her brothers the warriors seemed uncommonly quiet this night. She lay in the chill of the draw, wishing she could escape the flow of cold air down it, staring at the many stars in the heavens, each star the spirit of one who was gone forever. Like Skye. She tried to abolish his name from mind, but his name was there. He was like the dead now; she should put him out of mind, if she could.

  Few of them slept. One could hear sleep, hear the sigh and fall of breath, but not now. The ponies were nervous, wheeling on their pickets, snorting softly, their nostrils catching the scent of something—wolf or man or bear. Who could know? It would be a long night.

  She tossed the whole night. The hard cold earth bit her. She could not find a level place in the draw. She swore owls drifted past her. Owls were sacred, and their presence portended death. Shapes in the night changed, loomed over her, retreated. Surely these were the Siksika spirits from those brooding hills. Her bones ached. Why had she come on a warrior’s mission? What a foolish young woman she had been. Why had not Red Turkey Head said anything? Where was Magpie?

  The wolf cry in the predawn light wasn’t a wolf, and all the Absaroka knew it. She bolted upright in the murk. An arrow struck her buffalo robe. They had hunted for the Bloods but the Bloods had found them first. She saw, or thought she saw, Blackfoot warriors on either side, loosing arrows into the Absarokas below. One brother grunted, cried something, and then groaned. The groaning stopped. She froze, unable to decide what to do. Around her the Absarokas were struggling out of their robes, reaching for their bows and quivers, stringing bows. She heard another thump of arrow on flesh, and someone toppled with a terrible cough and a sigh.

  Fear paralyzed her. Near her, Pine Leaf was yanking her pony’s picket pin from the ground and easing over the back of her fear-crazed pony. Pine Leaf steered the pony straight upslope at the warriors who were loosing arrows from above, recklessly steering toward the enemy. Other Absarokas followed her, and Many Quill Woman heard the sounds of desperate struggle from that quarter. She stared, astonished. Most of the Absarokas were fleeing down the draw on foot or horseback. She saw a horse stagger, whinny, grunt, and roll over slowly. That was her salvation. She raced to it, fell behind the still-heaving body, strung her bow, pulled an arrow from her quiver and nocked it, and tried to discern the enemy, who were gliding downslope on foot, barely visible in the curtains of darkness. She rose, loosed an arrow at a crouching warrior on the slope. It missed. She ducked behind the carcass and nocked another.

  Goddammit, where was Skye?

  She heard Antelope howling like a wolf, his voice unmistakable. He was rallying his men against this unseen enemy. A dozen Absarokas raced in his direction. But the arrows came thick and fast, finding their marks. Many Quill Woman saw another Absaroka stagger and fall and writhe on the bloody grasses. She knew that one, Diving Hawk, husband of her friend Little Weasel, and a new father.

  Someone fired a rifle, the crack shocking in the silent cusp of day. She saw forms darting downslope, crouching, looking for targets, loosing arrows. They spoke the tongue of the enemy. One stopped, threw up his arms, and tumbled. So one Siksika dog died, anyway. She would kill another. She would kill before they killed her. Where had her people gone? She could see none, but she heard the low thud of hooves across the throat of the earth. Where were her warriors? Where had Antelope gone?

  She heard the sounds of struggle up above, on the plains, grunts and cries, howls of rage, horses coughing and collapsing. For the moment the war departed from her. Those who had crept down the slopes had run back up again. The light thickened into a soft gray, enough to make things out. A half dozen Absarokas lay dead or groaning. They would lose their scalps soon enough—and so would she. But she saw several Bloods—if that’s what they were—on the slope, some looking dead; another was sitting with his leg cocked sideways, useless. She suddenly realized she had to find her people, find Beckwourth, get a good horse and flee. Wherever the fighting was, it wasn’t in the draw. Black lumps sprawled on the slopes told her of death. Weeping, choking, gasping, groaning, singing, told her of dying. Suddenly war took on a new perspective for her. This was real; the victory parades through the village had never been real. How would she feel with an arrow in her chest, unable to breathe, her world turning over?

  Beckwourth had raced up the draw, the one direction that offered salvation. She would follow. She abandoned the carcass, felt an arrow pierce her skirt, tumbled to earth, and tried to find the arrow’s source. The injured Blood on the slope was still fighting his battle, and his arrows were lethal. Another smacked the grass inches from her nose. She bolted forward while he armed himself. She turned, loosed an arrow at him, and it struck his bow, spoiling his aim. His arrow vanished somewhere. She raced up the draw, heart pounding. Where were they?

  She splashed through the rivulet at the head of the draw and felt the icy water soak her moccasins. She climbed a short steep embankment that took her to the undulating plains, and freedom, and beheld bloody light across the eastern horizon. She saw no one for a moment; the running battle had taken both sides far away. Her heart slowed. She wished she had run when Antelope called, jumped on any pony instead of lying behind a dying horse.

  A warrior loomed out of nowhere. He was leading a lame horse. She saw in a flash this one was a Blood, and he would kill her with the knife in his hand. She drew her bow, but he lunged, knocking her flat with his shoulder; a club just missed her face. She tumbled to earth and scrambled aside to avoid the blade.

  But the thrust didn’t come.

  twenty—nine

  They stared at each other. Her heart raced. The Blood was mature and powerful, and he bore the marks of war. A scar cut across his cheek, from the corner of an eye to his mouth. But for it he would be handsome. He stood over her, enjoying his triumph.

  She would die. The knife in his hand was poised to cut her throat. She ached to kill him, but his moccasin rested heavily on her chest, crushing her into the earth.

  She didn’t want to die. Not after only twenty winters. But helplessness stole through her, the helplessness of a baby bird caught in the hand. She did not rebuke herself for coming on this ill-fated venture. There wasn’t time. She needed to summon her wits and begin to sing a death song, but words deserted her.

  Something shifted in his eyes, and he lowered his hand to his side. It wasn’t mercy she saw, but something else. And then she knew. He would enjoy torturing her later. The Siksika were good at it. She would die slowly, her flesh roasted and peeled from her living body, her screams involuntary no matter how hard she sought stoic death. She ached for the blade and its swift sure mercy.

  He took his foot off her and said something sh
e didn’t understand. The pain where his foot had crushed her chest throbbed. He smiled darkly, picked up her bow and snapped it in two, pulled the knife from her waist sheath and left her there. She knew if she moved, or fled, he would be back in an instant. He studied the distant prairies, listening for the sound of strife. His lamed horse had ended the battle for him. He studied his horse, lifted a foreleg; the horse screamed its agony, and he let go. In one blurred motion he slit the throat of the horse. Red gouted from its neck. It shivered, sagged, and dropped heavily to the ground, its limbs flailing, its body convulsing.

  The Blood warrior walked downslope toward the wounded or dead Absarokas. She watched him, filled with knowing. The man was powerfully built, with flesh the color of honey, jet hair worn in a single braid, and wearing leggings and moccasins and breechclout, but nothing save a medicine bundle above the waist. A second scar puckered his left arm. He was older than she, and he had seen many battles and won many honors.

  He approached Little Otter from behind. The Absaroka lived, but soon wouldn’t. An arrow pierced clear through his chest. The Blood grasped Little Otter’s two braids, lifted them high, and ran his scalping knife clear around Little Otter’s head, across his brow, over the ears, around the back, and to the brow again. Little Otter groaned. The Blood yanked mightily on the braids, and the scalp popped free with a sucking sound. The Blood watched the Absaroka sag into the ground and left him to die slowly, his spirit homeless evermore. The Blood lifted his fresh scalp and offered it to the heavens, seeking the blessings of the rising sun upon his victory.