Dark Passage

by Richard S. Wheeler

  “All right, Skye. We’ll see you at the fort. Don’t waste a minute. You’ll beat us because of all the oxbows in the river.” He squinted at Skye. “Don’t let me down.”

  Skye nodded. So Berger had even discerned Skye’s temptation and was warning him. Skye ached simply to ride away, forget the debts, forget his sixty-dollar income—which he would receive only if he completed his tour at this post—forget it all and go get her—somehow.

  “I’ll go straight to the post,” he said.

  “If you don’t …” Berger didn’t complete his thought.

  He helped Berger and Arquette clamber into their wobbly craft and shove off. Each had a pole and crude paddle for steering and dodging rocks and rapids.

  Then he was alone. Now Victoria was ten, fifteen, twenty miles gone. He climbed onto his black horse, untied the dun, and led it along a trail that soon took him far from the Missouri. He would rarely be close to the river all the way back. He rode listlessly, as if his whole life had bled away from him. If the world was a paradise in June, he didn’t notice it. He had turned inward, seeing nothing but the images stamped upon his soul. He missed the last of the spring wildflowers, the red-winged blackbirds and meadowlarks, the emerald grasses swiftly growing their seedheads, the turtles and frogs in the sloughs, the antelope that watched him from the crown of a hill, and the constant signs of passage—the hoofprints of large Indian migrations. He had not eyes to see, and didn’t know that a few ticks of the clock earlier—or later—he might have stumbled into the clutches of Lakota, Assiniboine, Cree, and any of several bands of Blackfeet.

  Thus he progressed to Fort Union like a blind man, having lost all his wilderness caution. And yet Fate—or was it the magpies he kept seeing—spared him a fool’s death. He had become the ultimate tenderfoot. He saw nothing in that sea of grass that could hurt him, though a thousand perils lurked in every league. Even the weather seemed to respect his madness: the looming thundershowers that built up each afternoon veered away, as if determined not to soak or chill a man out of his head. The winds, which normally howled through the empty grasslands, quieted themselves and politely eddied past him, having mercy upon an innocent.

  His journey took him on a wide loop around the breaks of the Missouri, around the oxbows that doubled the water miles to the post, but he didn’t notice. The hours slipped by in quiet march, and he knew that he would not go down the river to St. Louis, and he knew he would outfit again at Fort Union, using his sixty dollars, and go get her and take her home, wherever his home would be. He would find that band of Bloods and her, and nothing would come between him and Victoria ever again.

  He rode into Fort Union unmolested. A long keelboat bobbed at anchor on the levee beside the post. It had brought forty tons of trade goods and resupply to Fort Union from the village of Independence, a thousand water miles distant, all of it hauled upriver by pole and sail and cordelle, employing wind and the muscle of the Creole voyageurs. He eyed the long low craft and knew he would not go down the river aboard it.

  From McKenzie, who received him in his suite, he learned he had arrived ahead of Berger and Arquette. The iron-willed factor questioned Skye closely about how the trading had gone, and Skye answered. Yes, a good season. Sold out all trade items, garnered fifteen packs of beaver, plenty of other pelts, all very successful. And yes, AFC should build a permanent post at that site and trade with the Blackfeet. They had plenty of well-cured pelts. And yes, last Skye knew, Berger and Arquette were on the river in two large bullboats and due soon.

  “Good. You’ve proved that our strategy works. The company owns the river. And now we’ll own the Blackfoot trade clear to the shining mountains. Now, let’s talk about you. What’s the matter with you, Skye?” McKenzie asked. “Something sure as hell is wrong.”

  “The matter? Nothing, mate.”

  “I’ve talked with you for an hour. Where are you? You aren’t here, that I know.”

  Skye shrugged.

  “Did you see any Indians?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Odd. We’ve had half a dozen bands stop here. And every day we pick up rumors of big fights, bloody wars, horse thievery, massacres … outrages. You must have seen a dozen war parties. We feared all three of you would perish.”

  “No, sir.”

  “It’s a miracle you still have your hair.”

  “I’ve changed my plans, sir. I wish to draw my sixty dollars, pay you something, and reoutfit myself. I’ll be staying in the mountains.”

  “Something happened. Tell me what.”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  McKenzie’s piercing gaze missed nothing, but his keen mind missed everything. “You are mad,” he said.

  thirty—five

  It was madness. And it was love. In one piercing moment, as fleeting as a heartbeat, everything had changed. Victoria needed him.

  In the post store, Skye replenished sparingly, but bought ample powder and precast lead balls for his rifle. The rest he agonized over: he needed something to trade for Victoria if it came to that. And peace offerings. He purchased ten plugs of tobacco for that. For trading he purchased a pair of blankets, which the Indians coveted, a kettle and knife, some awls, hanks of beads, and a bolt of red flannel. That was all he could afford, and it probably would not buy Victoria’s freedom. He allowed himself some tea and sugar, paid fifty-nine dollars for the lot, and pocketed a dollar.

  Kenneth McKenzie hovered about, wild with curiosity but shamming disinterest. “Where are you going, Mister Skye?” he demanded, abruptly.

  “I’m going to the Blackfeet.”

  “The Blackfeet, are you? The Blackfeet! Then I’ve seen the last of you. I ought to prevent it, but I know better. Why are you going to the Blackfeet?”

  Skye could not answer that one. There were things one had to do, however mad they seemed. “Just say I’m out of my head, sir.”

  “That you are. Well, I’ll get the story from Berger. He ought to arrive today or tomorrow. Is there something about the Blackfeet I don’t know?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Which Blackfeet?”

  “The Bloods.”

  “Ah, the Bloods, mostly living in British possessions. The Bloods, eh? Nice friendly people, the Bloods.”

  Skye laughed, loaded his new goods onto his packsaddle, and tipped his hat. He lifted himself into the saddle and steered the horses through the massive double gate.

  “Skye, dammit, I’ll never see you again.”

  “That’s right,” Skye replied.

  “Well, you’re mad, but I wish you success, whatever you’re up to. If anyone can succeed, you can.” McKenzie offered Skye his hand, which Skye took. “Good-bye, Barnaby Skye,” the factor said softly.

  Skye rode west, feeling the stares on his back. He followed a trail that would take him past the little post on the Marias. It wound far away from the Missouri, across empty flats where there would be no place to hide.

  Alone at last, he began to calculate the ways he might free Victoria, and the more he contemplated that task, the more daunting and hopeless it seemed. He knew a few words he had picked up trading, but these weren’t enough to help him. How would he ask other Blackfeet where the Bloods had gone, and especially this band of Bloods? How would he say he wanted to trade for an Absaroka woman held captive by one of those bands? Who would translate, pave the way, help him? How could he make his peaceful intentions clear, keep himself from dying a lonely death on the prairies, find allies, enter a camp of people who relished the scalps of any white men they could find?

  Did he have the courage?

  He didn’t. He was deathly afraid.

  Why was he doing this?

  For Victoria. It was utterly simple. It defied the sort of calculation of prudent men, weighing risk against reward. It came down to Victoria. He would do what he had to do. And probably die soon. Or worse, see her death as a result of his efforts.

  Unlike his passage to Fort Union, he was alive to menace now. He scanned the
rolling prairies for signs of trouble, studied the morning heavens for columns of smoke, kept below skylines wherever he could, examined each slough for fresh hoofprints. He saw more signs of travel than he wanted to see this far from the Blackfeet. He was still in lands dominated by Assiniboine and Cree.

  He camped in hollows, built fires out of sight, studied the whole country before risking a shot at game. He watched his back trail, climbed hills where he could see for miles behind him. So far, at least, he had dodged war and hunting parties. But when would his luck run out?

  One fine morning he reached the trading post on the Marias—or what was left of it. The Blackfeet had promptly burned it, and all that remained were some charred foundation logs. He shuddered. So little did they want traders in their land that they had destroyed the little cabin hours after it had been abandoned. The surrounding meadow glowed serenely in the blinding sun, as if nothing sinister had ever happened there. He was in Blackfoot country now, with no more plan than when he started. But one thing had been building in him: he needed a guide and translator, someone who could take him to the various bands of Bloods and help him negotiate. And keep him alive.

  He knew of only one band of the Bloods, the Fish-Eaters, so named because they alone among the Blackfeet ate fish. Hardly any Plains Indians ate fish. Victoria loathed them, and stared appalled whenever the trappers filleted and cooked trout for dinner.

  Where would he find a guide, and how would he pay for one? He did not know. But maybe if he rode a while, he would find one, or one would find him. He ransacked his skimpy knowledge of these people, seeking a way. Eventually he thought he might have one. He needed to find the Little Robes. They were nominally Piegans, but so independent of them that, in a way, they were almost a fourth nation in the Blackfoot Federation. Berger had said they were more hospitable to their neighbors—to some small degree. There were occasions when Absaroka and Little Robe hunting parties had feasted together, proclaiming a truce during a good buffalo hunt. Maybe a Little Robe would take Skye to the Bloods.

  Then there were the Gros Ventres, mooching “cousins” of the Piegans, whose lengthy visits were not entirely welcome among the Blackfeet. Maybe Skye could engage one of those people to help him. But it wasn’t an option he relished. He needed a bona fide Blackfoot Indian to take him into the heart of their country—and get him out alive, with Victoria.

  For five more days he rode into Blackfoot country. The Stony Mountains formed a wall ahead, still tipped with white. The Piegans called it the Backbone of the World, a good description of a feature that sliced off the Great Plains from everything to the west. He startled with every flight of a crow, broke out in sweat every time an antelope ran, fought fear whenever he saw signs of horse passage. Yet he saw no one, and the imagined terrors loomed larger than any real ones.

  He camped one evening on the Marias, which he had followed northwest for days. He chose a well-concealed gulch with cottonwoods that would diffuse his woodsmoke and a seep for himself and his horses. The darkness seemed slow to come that time of year—probably July, though he had lost track—and light lingered across the northwestern heavens. He had been struggling to find food and had not used his rifle for fear of drawing Bug’s Boys down upon him. But he thought he might fish the Marias for some trout. He slipped through dense cottonwoods to reach the river—and smelled woodsmoke. He ducked back into the twilight of the cottonwoods and studied the river flats. To the west was an encampment of some sort. His pulse leapt. He edged toward the camp, peering through a screen of alder and willow brush, and discovered twenty or thirty male Indians, either a war party or a hunting party, or both. They weren’t painted. Most wore low summer moccasins, and he could not tell their color. He had learned anyway that most tribes made moccasins from the smoke-blackened upper hides of a lodge. The smoke and grease cured the hide, turned water, and added toughness to the leather.

  His every instinct was to flee for his life. These men were tall, powerfully built, athletic, and looked entirely capable of murdering him on the spot. He crept away, his back itching with the anticipation of an arrow. Back in his own camp, he faced the dilemma: the Blackfeet terrified him, and yet he needed to make contact if he wanted to find Victoria.

  There was only one thing to do: ride in. He would do it on horseback, because if he needed to escape, he would have his possessions with him and he could swiftly plunge into the safety of darkness just beyond the fire. He dreaded what he had to do. But the image of Victoria filled his mind, that searing moment when she cried out and was swiftly hustled away from his vision.

  What was there but to go in? To live or die, he didn’t know. Back in his own side gulch, he collected his horses, saddled up, loaded his kit, looked to the powder and priming on his flintlock, and then mounted, carrying his rifle loosely across his lap. But in his leathers he had a plug of tobacco, and in his kit some trade items—if he ever got that far.

  It seemed like the longest ride he had ever undertaken, though the distance was less than a mile. The twilight had surrendered to blackness, though a band of blue still lingered above the Backbone to the west. Where were their guards? Would he stumble into the horse herders and be taken for a raider? He steered toward the trail along the river, scarcely knowing where he was going, the stars dancing pricks of light on the flowing stream.

  Then, suddenly, the trees ahead reflected light, and he could make out moving forms.

  “Hello the camp,” he yelled, and kicked his black horse forward.

  For a moment nothing happened, and he rued the folly of this quest.

  “Hello the camp,” he yelled again, giving notice, and this time he saw men stirring, racing for weapons, preparing for an intruder.

  Then he rode in. In the light of the half-extinguished fire, he faced a phalanx of armed warriors, their faces terrible in the flickering light.

  Skye’s pulse raced so fast he wondered if his heart would burst. “Peace,” he said, lifting a hand upward. “Peace.” He remembered the plains hand sign for peace, but it was too late for that anyway. They could kill him in a trice. He saw nocked arrows pointing at him, a lance in the hand of a warrior. Several more stood with war clubs or tomahawks in hand. They were waiting for something, perhaps word from their headman. Skye looked for that one and thought he spotted the right one, a man with an imperious gaze, gaunt, hollow-chested, ugly and cruel, missing several teeth and an ear.

  Skye lifted a plug of tobacco until it was plainly in sight of them all, and then walked his horse to the one he supposed led this party and handed it to the man.

  But the unaccepted tobacco plunged to the ground.

  thirty—six

  Skye stared at the plug of tobacco in the grass and swung the rifle in his lap around to point at the headman. That would give him a few seconds while the leader thought it over.

  The headman’s eyes focused on the bore of the rifle, and Skye saw some subtle change in his face.

  “Who speaks English? Anyone?”

  No one replied.

  Skye didn’t know how to proceed. He could not remove his hand from the trigger, yet he needed both hands to make some hand signs. During his four years in the mountains he had acquired a good hand sign vocabulary, but now it was useless. He ransacked his mind for a few Blackfoot words he had learned during the trading.

  “Kainah,” he said.

  These warriors stared impassively.

  Much to Skye’s surprise, the headman resolved the dilemma. Slowly, his gaze on the bore of the rifle, he stooped over and picked up the tobacco plug and held it high, thrusting it first at Skye and then at the Blackfoot warriors.

  Skye peered sharply into the faces surrounding him. No one lowered a bow or lance. It had come down to trust. Slowly he pointed the rifle downward and uncocked it. Then he slipped it into its fringed leather sheath on his saddle. He glanced around him. None of the Blackfeet had lowered their bows.

  Slowly, using a combination of Blackfoot words and handsigns, he made his intentions k
nown. He was a trader. He was looking for a band of the Bloods that had traded at the post on the Marias, Kaiyi Isisakta, recently. He wished to hire a guide to take him there safely. He wished to buy an Absaroka slave who was his wife. He would pay the guide well—a long knife and an awl and ten iron arrow points.

  He wasn’t at all sure he was understood, but at least they listened and watched his hands. Uneasily, he surveyed the bows and arrows in the hands of these warriors. No bow was drawn, but that offered him little comfort. In the space of two seconds he could be pierced by twenty arrows.

  The Siksika are a great and powerful people, he signaled to them. One by one his hands formed words and ideas: He was glad they had accepted his tobacco. They would help a man who wished to buy his wife back. The Pikuni, Kainah, and Siksika were the most generous of all the Peoples.

  They watched his hands, and listened to his occasional words, and stood in the flickering firelight without showing the slightest sign of acceptance or rejection, of friendship or murder.

  His hands made new signs: If you will not help, I will go in peace.

  The headman’s hands made words: We do not know where Kainah are. Maybe we will see them at Sun Dance.

  Skye responded: Where will the Sun Dance be?

  “Mokwamski,” the headman said.

  The Belly River, Skye translated. Well up in British lands, a long, dangerous journey from here. The traditional home of the Bloods.

  “Good. I am Skye,” he said, making the sign for the sky and pointing at himself.

  “Skye. Ah. I am Istowun-eh ’pata, Packs a Knife. We are Nit-sitapi, Real People, Siksika.”

  These were Blackfeet proper, then. A little more inclined to let a white man live than the Piegans, or Pikuni, as they called themselves.

  The headman pointed at Skye’s bear claw necklace and said something Skye could not translate. But he understood suddenly that the bear claws might have saved his life.