Victoria was glad to be left alone. She was desperate now, and needed to concentrate on walking, because to fall would be to die. She edged over to the side of a travois and leaned on it, letting her body rest against it and letting it drag her along. But the old woman of the lodge spotted her and shouted curses at her and threatened to club her until she withdrew her hand and stumbled ahead.
She reeled forward, stumbled, found her footing, and walked a while more, her flesh defying her spirit and her muscles like wax. They were traversing open plains, far from water or shelter, the long line of villagers protected by vedettes out to the sides, along with a rear guard and scouts ahead. There would be no escaping, no disappearing here upon an ocean of young green grass. She tried again to find support, this time behind a horse whose tail she caught and held. This time the fierce old woman caught her instantly and bounded toward her, a thick stick in hand, and arced it menacingly. Victoria let go.
She was all used up, scarcely half a day into this passage. She could walk no more. She glanced about, seeing the sunlit meadows rife with yellow wildflowers, bold blue sky, the brooding Sweet Grass Hills to the northeast, the circling hawks high above. Tears came unbidden, not because she was about to die but because of the aching beauty of this land, which stirred her heart. She had lost.
She reeled to the warm earth, which received her gently, the soil still soft from winter’s snow. She pulled herself up so she might sit cross-legged and wait for the blow. And she began to sing her death song.
I am Many Quill Woman.
I am Victoria, named by yellow eyes Skye.
I have seen the good world, and the flowers.
I am one of the People.
Now I will walk upon the long trail to the stars.
This she sang, once, twice, and again, scarcely aware of the Siksika gathering around. But then she found herself in shadow and looked to see what blocked the sun.
thirty—three
It was not her day to die. Her captor lifted her onto his buffalo-running pony, and that was that. She clung to the mane, barely able to stay on the lively horse, but this was the gift of life so she gripped the thick mane in small fists and hung on.
The Bloods stopped early that day beside a lively creek dotted with willows and brush. Grandfather of Wolves lifted her off the pony and took the pony away. His women ignored her, for which she was grateful. She wondered what he had in mind. Whatever her fate, she lay in warm grass now as the villagers set up camp for the night. Few raised lodges, because the sky was cloudless. They would cook and sleep in the open, even though the predawn chill might put frost on their robes. She hoped they would give her a robe against the night cold.
They seemed to be drifting out upon the plains, almost aimlessly but actually heading toward buffalo grounds. Or perhaps to make war on the Assiniboine, who lived in this easterly direction. Since she could not speak with these people, she really didn’t know. She had not seen the old woman again, so she had no one to talk to.
Her body still hurt from the coup counting. She dragged herself to the creek, drank and washed, and then lay down. Her captor’s women paid little heed. They would tax her with hard work later, when her body was ready. That they didn’t demand anything of her now was clue enough: she would be a slave, a dumb animal put to their use.
Was that better than death? She faced loneliness until she could master their tongue, and she faced drudgery. But most of life was drudgery. Hard work absorbed the energies of any woman of the People. There was always too much to do: firewood, cooking, fleshing and tanning hides, making moccasins, preparing pemmican, berry gathering, root digging, beading, quilling, making lodges, making clothing, packing and unpacking lodges, dealing with horses, children, dogs, and guests. These things she would be doing for this Blood lodge. But it would be different because she would be under command and have not the slightest freedom of her own. Her life no longer belonged to her.
That is how the next suns spun out. As soon as her broken body mended they put her to work, always at the meanest and hardest tasks. They did give her a robe to sleep in; she would be of no value to them sickened by cold. Was this her life? She remembered the laughing girl in the village; the harder, lonelier life with Skye and all the trappers whose tongue she didn’t know. But at least she had Skye then, and the trappers were friendly, not enemies forcing her into slavery. Those were idyllic times compared to what she was experiencing now.
The Moon of New Leaves passed, and the Moon of Buffalo Calves, and she toiled ceaselessly for the Bloods, who continued to drift south and east, enjoying the spring and anticipating the high, sweet days of summer. Each day, as the village drifted, riders rode out to find the buffalo, but they rarely found any except a few old bulls that had abandoned the herd or had been driven out. That meat wasn’t good but it sustained them. No one ever went hungry, including their new Absaroka slave.
They reached the Big River, the river Skye called the Missouri, one afternoon. It ran high and swift, bank to bank, carrying the mountain snows far away. Skye said the water went to the seas, many suns away. The Blood seers and elders paused there, watching the swift cold waters, and elected not to cross. There was no need, and it would endanger the old ones, and the children, and maybe some horses, too. They would wait to make war on the Absaroka, and meanwhile look for buffalo and perform the spring ceremonies. Soon all the Siksika would gather for the opening of the beaver bundle. Then, in a while, would come the Sun Dance, the high, sacred time of the year. Skye had compared it to the Easter of the white men.
Maybe they would ritually torture and sacrifice her for that dance. But she doubted it. She was learning a little of their tongue—when the women of the lodge told her to cut wood or scrape hide, she understood. When they told her to leave or come or cook or not to think too highly of herself, she understood. Sometimes they were almost friendly—not that they spoke to her or attempted to befriend her. But a small smile or a little touch of a hand spoke worlds to her.
They camped on the Missouri a while, watching the Big River deliver its water to the lands far to the east. That was when Grandfather of Wolves came to her in the night. Two of his women were in the menstrual hut, so he came to her robes beside the doorflap and pulled the robes open and pierced her swiftly and forcefully. He had captured her; that was his right. She did not respond. Grandfather of Wolves would never be her beloved, and by lying quietly she let him know that. But he didn’t seem to mind. In a moment he was gone, but those in the lodge, the grandfather and grandmother and the daughters, all knew, and so something had changed. Victoria did not hear the sounds of sleep for a while. She wondered if she would have the child that she and Skye never had. If so, it would be taken from her and raised a Blood. As a slave she could not even possess the child of her womb.
One day some Piegans visited the camp: fifty-six warriors, no women, and en route to the south, where they would kill Absarokas and capture many horses. Victoria watched them bitterly. These were powerful warriors, seasoned, mostly older men, ready to destroy her people if they could. They conferred with their Blood relatives, smoked in the lodge of the chief, a great circle of elders, war chiefs, leaders, and seers, and then the Piegans stripped, swam their ponies across the flooded river, having great trouble doing it, and collected on the other side, dripping cold water. Within a day or two they would make widows and capture slaves and kill many. She hoped the Kicked-in-the-Bellies—if that was the village to be assaulted—would be ready for a fight and that Beckwourth would defeat the invaders. But somehow she doubted it. Beckwourth loved to raid; he loved spoils, but would he defend a village?
The Bloods drifted along the river, finding deer and an occasional elk to feed them. The great river ran between steep bluffs, having cut a channel deep into the surrounding plains. Now the western mountains were no longer in sight. She wondered when the Bloods would settle down for a long encampment. Every day or two, they packed up and wandered once again, restlessly whiling away the sweet days
. Soon after the summer solstice, when Father Sun reached highest in the heaven and had almost vanquished night, they and all the Siksika would gather at some prearranged place for the sacred dance of summer.
Then one day, out on a neck of land between the Big River and the one the Blackfeet called Kaiyi Isisakta, Bear River, they came to a small log cabin hastily thrown together from cottonwoods and chinked with mud. A pen for horses was attached. A narrow flat separated the post from the Big River. Some yellow eyes were building bullboats there and were nearly done. They had stretched hides over one willow frame and sewn them tight, and now were sealing them. So they would soon be leaving. She learned that this was a new trading post. The Piegans had told them about it. Not many goods left, but maybe some powder and lead and arrow points; maybe a war ax or lance point or two. Good things to have when killing the Absaroka. They would trade here.
So the lodges went up. They would stay a while. Victoria helped put up the lodge of Grandfather of Wolves and move the household items into it. But she was curious about the yellow eyes, as her people called them, and soon she would slip away to peek at them. There were only three, two lighter, one dark, almost like one of the People. But maybe there were more inside the cabin. The three stopped building and went into the cabin to trade. She hoped they had nothing to trade. The Bloods wanted guns and knives and hatchets and lance points to kill her people.
The women of her lodge did not let her leave it; indeed, they told her not to go to the white men or she would die. They were only three. If she tried to escape, they would kill her—and the white men. Victoria registered that and knew she must obey. So it was that the village traded and she stayed close to the lodge of Grandfather of Wolves. The Bloods grumbled because these traders didn’t have much left and were about to go down the river, taking their pelts with them. Some of the younger Bloods wanted to kill the white men, take the pelts, and trade them at Hudson’s Bay for lots of fusils and powder and balls.
All this she heard with her quickening understanding of the Siksika tongue. She learned there was an older one who was chief of traders, another who was dark and had warm brown eyes, and another who had blue eyes, a stocky build, and a big nose, the grandfather of noses. The description made her think of Skye, but he would not be here. This was not even the same white men’s company. This was another company, not Fitzpatrick, or Bridger, or Sublette. Skye was far away, going to the place where he learned things. These traders were very cautious and did not much show themselves. They obviously feared the powerful Bloods, who could destroy them in a moment.
So the Bloods traded for the last of the goods, grumbled about the place, debated whether to destroy it so these traders could not trade with the Cree or Assiniboine or Lakota, and decided to let it alone. The traders had told them they had built the post to trade with the Siksika and would be back in a while with many more goods and would pay a good price for beaver.
The women of the lodge were disappointed. The traders had no ribbons or beads left, and only a little cloth, which the chief’s wives took. Night fell, and word came from the crier that the Blood people would leave in the morning. She dreamed restlessly that night, her thoughts on Skye, her love for him building day by day as her captivity continued. She scarcely thought of Beckwourth. He had appealed to the girl; Skye had evoked the woman.
The next dawn the village dismantled itself, poorer in pelts and richer in the tools of war and implements of cooking. They had cleaned out the traders of every last pot and flint and fire steel and knife and arrow point. The traders rose early to watch the Bloods leave, and now they even wandered among them.
That was when she saw Skye. There was no doubt. That build, that rolling seaman’s gait, that nose, those eyes. She stared unbelieving, speechless, as he and the dark one wandered past the busy Bloods.
“Skye!” she cried.
He whirled, saw her, mouth agape.
“Help me, Skye!”
The women of the lodge swarmed over her, shouting and pulling her hair and dragging her away from the white man.
“Victoria!” he yelled. He hastened toward the lodge, but Blood warriors casually blocked the way.
That was the last she saw of him.
thirty—four
Skye stood, paralyzed. Victoria was a captive. He started toward the lodge where he had glimpsed her, but Blood warriors swiftly blocked the way. One, a large man with a scarred face, threatened to kill him—the gesture was unmistakable—if he proceeded.
That was the last he saw of her, but her cry to him seared his soul. Somehow she had been taken a prisoner. That was rare enough; the usual fate of an Absaroka prisoner was death. Skye watched the Bloods pack and saddle and depart, heading who knows where, with Victoria among them. There were a hundred adult women in the village, and he could not tell her from the others. And none of them looked back.
He knew he should forget it. She had abandoned him for another. She had been unfaithful. She had laughed at him and scorned his ways. He could not think of one good reason to try to rescue her. He had other plans now. He had debts to pay to two fur companies, a trip east in mind, and dreams of a life back in civilization. What’s more, he couldn’t just leave his two colleagues here; he was needed to take the peltries down to Fort Union.
That’s what his mind told him. His heart spoke otherwise. Her cry for help tore him to bits. If she needed him, he would help her. Somehow, some way, he would free her. But how? Walk into a Blood village and—steal her? Buy her? Trade for her? No white man walked into a Blackfoot village alone, not even Berger, who had befriended a few of them. Skye knew what would happen if he pursued: the village guards would catch him, torture him to death as slowly as possible, making the torment extralong for a white man. He knew only a smatering of words and couldn’t make himself understood. He knew the hand language, or some of it, but he doubted it would help him.
“What be ye staring at, Skye?”
“My wife, Victoria. She’s a prisoner.”
“A Crow. Forget it. Ye walk into that village askin’ for her, and they’d slit her throat and hand her to ye. The Cree named’em Bloods for good reason. They got bloody hands. Some say it’s because they paint up with red earth, but that’s not it. You’re talking about bloody Bloods.”
“I have to get her out.”
“Skye, damn me, do ye like being hung by your feet from a limb and having your living brains roasted over a fire?”
“You could go after her—she’s not a mile away. Here—trade my rifle for her.”
“You’re crazy, Skye. Forget her. Find another mountain wife if that’s what devils ye.”
“She cried out for help.”
Berger contemplated Skye for a moment. “Come on now, Skye. I’ve traded for a few bufflerhides, enough to build the second bullboat. Them Bloods don’t have any too many horses, and they wouldn’t trade. But they had hides aplenty. Now, I’m tellin’ ye, get to work. We’ve got to get on down the river.”
Berger was right. Skye knew he had to let go of the past. Victoria had been a happy interlude in his young life. It had come to a bad end, but he wouldn’t remember that. When he was old and comfortable as a merchant, he might quietly invoke the memory of her glowing beauty, and the wild free days lived close to campfire smoke, and the sweetness of her kiss, and he would know he had been blessed.
He walked listlessly to the frame of the second bullboat. Arquette was already at work, shaping a green buffalohide to the frame.
“What be de trouble?” the Creole said, surveying Skye.
“My wife. I saw her in that village. She’s a captive. She cried out to me but they hustled her off.”
“Ah, one squaw’s good as another. You wan’ a good life, try variety, oui? We get you three, four nice Cree ladies and you forget this wan, I think.”
“I love her.”
“But she don’t love you, eh? Not from what you tell us.”
She loved him. He knew that. She loved him in spite of all that h
ad happened with Beckwourth. He felt a weight on him so heavy he could barely lift his hands.
“Skye, we build dis boat now.”
But the more Skye tried to work again, the more his mind wandered. He mostly just stared at the horizon where the Bloods had vanished, until Arquette roundly cursed him in two tongues.
“Merde, Skye! You not worth a sou this day.”
Listlessly, Skye did work after that, his mind elsewhere. But one by one the hides were shaped, laced to each other, and the seams caulked. They could leave for Fort Union in the morning, Skye with his horses, Berger and Arquette each in a loaded bullboat.
The afternoon ebbed as the pair pulled the upside-down bullboat frame out of the earth and bound the hides to the gunnels.
“You no say ten word this afternoon,” Arquette grumbled. “You deciding you go get yourself kill for a little Crow lady.”
Skye had been deciding exactly that. He didn’t respond. They finished the boat, tethered it with a line, and tested it on the swift current. They found half a dozen leaks, and set to work with tallow and pitch once again. Skye distrusted the miserable, light, leather-lined boats, and was glad he wasn’t being required to steer one clear to Fort Union.
That evening he sank into a deep melancholy, saying not a word to either of his partners. Berger’s sharp glances and headshaking told Skye what the others thought, but they left him alone and didn’t try to dissuade him. If he was mad enough to get himself killed for a faithless little squaw, then there was nothing they could do about it. Skye didn’t sleep that night. The image of Victoria, her cry for help, and the swift harsh response from the Bloods, returned to his mind over and over, keeping him up and deviling him. He rose in the morning in a black mood, weary and despairing.
They loaded packs of beaver into the bullboats and then added heavy packs of buffalo robes and assorted other peltries, including luxurious ermine, mink, weasel, otter, elk, and deer. The amazing little craft could haul enormous loads. Then Berger loaded Skye’s packhorse with still more beaver plews, as well as Skye’s kit.
Dark Passage Page 20
