Skye mended swiftly. His young body had been bruised and battered but not stricken by disease. Nor had any of his internal organs been damaged, or bones broken. He lay on his bed of grass, alert now, growing curious about his captors. He probably was in the lodge of that headman, the one who had led the buffalo hunt that supplied precious meat to this great tribal gathering. So many mouths to feed required relentless hunting for anything edible, and the buffalo Skye had hazed straight into the waiting Bloods must have seemed to them a gift from Sun himself.
On the third day of his captivity he wondered where Victoria might be and what her fate was. She probably was there, maybe within yards of him. No longer did he have the slightest chance of rescuing her. All his carefully hoarded stock of trade items intended to purchase her release had been taken from him. He lacked so much as a horse or a saddle—or covering for his feet. She would survive, tough and resilient and strong in her own way. Maybe she could fashion a life among these mortal enemies of the Crows. He knew it was commonplace for captive women to come to love their captors, marry them, become members of the once-hated tribe.
He was grateful she didn’t know he was in the village, helpless. She didn’t know he had tried, had plunged all this distance, taken all these risks, all because of a single plea to him before she was silenced. He didn’t want her to bear that knowledge. But if she did find out—and she might during the torture—she would know that he had come. That was all. He had come for her. Let that tell her about his love.
They left him alone another night and slept outside the lodge because of the summer’s heat. So he rarely saw the Blackfeet who held him. A woman fed him broth now, enough to sustain life—for the sport to come.
That day the sound of the drumming changed, the beat darker and more tormented, interrupted by intense singing. It was the time of sacrifice, when those making the sacred vow fulfilled it. The flesh of their chests or backs had been pierced, a cord run through the incision and strung to the Sun pole in the sacred medicine lodge. And there the young men who were making their sacrifice to Sun danced and would keep on dancing until they ripped free of the Sun pole and lay half dead in a pool of their own blood. Maybe his captor had been one of those.
The drumming continued deep into the night, and then slowed, and finally stopped. A great and terrible silence fell upon the camp of the Bloods, and Skye knew the dance had passed and the next day might be his last.
forty—two
The yellow eyes had come to the great encampment of the Bloods, and Victoria caught glimpses of them as they presented themselves to the chiefs and headmen. The women of the lodge had told her not to go to the place of the gathering, so Victoria had to be careful. The white men had gathered before the lodge of the greatest of Blood chiefs, Sees Afar, over among the Ah-kai-po-kaks, the Many Children band. All the other chiefs and headmen had gathered there, including Crow Dog, chief of the Hair Shirts.
Still, Victoria found ways to glimpse all this. She drifted that way, lost among the crowds of Siksika women and children, and saw some of it. She risked a beating but what did it matter? She could live like a whipped dog or she could try to make some sort of life for herself.
These were the other white men, from Grandfather’s Land across the great waters. Hudson’s Bay Company, the very ones who had chased Skye and tried to capture him years before. Most of them looked like the trappers she had seen in Skye’s brigade, hairy men in buckskins. But she saw some darker ones, the Creoles who spoke another tongue, and these were dressed alike in blue pants and red flannel shirts, as if they were all eggs from one nest. They interested her, but not so much as the other one, the great chief of the Hudson’s Bay men. This one wore black, except for a white shirt. Black from head to foot; a coat of black that dipped like the tail of a bird in back but was shorter in front. He had a meaty, cruel face, with bold eyes that missed nothing. He looked and acted like a great chief, too, a lord whose power and word won instant obedience.
She didn’t like these men. These were the ones who had supplied guns, axes, arrow points, tomahawks, and all the rest to the Siksika so that they might war upon the Absaroka and kill off rival yellow eyes men in the fur brigades. She studied them closely; they were from Mister Skye’s land and shared his blood.
She could see what all this was about: the black-clad man was seeking trade and giving gifts. He asked each chief to come forward, and gave each one a shining rifle. Those were mighty gifts, and they would assure that this company would have the Blackfoot trade for many winters to come. He was making a great speech all the while, and two translators were making his words into Siksika words so all could understand. All this was done with ceremony. One of the yellow eyes stood with a flag made of red with a certain sort of cross upon it. Skye had told her once that this company had a flag with the Cross of St. George upon it, but she didn’t know what that was. Another man held up a pole with another flag, this one red and blue and white. Skye had called that one a Union Jack, and it was the medicine of these Beyond the Water men.
After that there were many speeches, as each of the Blood chiefs stood, had his say about friendship and peace and trade and the alliance of Hudson’s Bay with the Siksika. She couldn’t follow all of that. But she knew the gist of it: between them, the Hudson’s Bay Company and the Siksika would drive out the other pale men from this land forever, and the Siksika would drive the Lakota and Cree and Assiniboine and Absaroka away, too, and be lords of the earth. She didn’t like this gathering. The many-gifts white men were plotting and scheming, and the Bloods were dreaming of power.
The Blood chiefs rose. The gathering was dissolving and the pale men would soon be gone. But the grandfather in the black clothing was talking to Sees Afar about something. And the great chief talked to someone else, who talked to someone else. Then a Blood warrior came forth, a powerfully built man wearing war honors. He had counted many coups. The grandfather summoned his Hudson’s Bay men to him, and soon they brought him another shining rifle and a pair of red blankets and other things. The warrior accepted these and vanished. Everyone stood there, waiting for something. Victoria wondered what it might be.
Then she saw what they were waiting for, and the sight sucked her breath from her lungs. They brought Skye to the grandfather man of Hudson’s Bay. Skye! He looked weary and bruised. She wormed her way closer, desperate, wanting to cry out to him but knowing she couldn’t. He had come for her. They had caught him. They had hurt him. He looked worn and wounded, but he stood alert and strong, something indomitable about him. His keen blue eyes surveyed the grandfather and the Hudson’s Bay men. The warrior who had captured Skye pushed Skye the last few feet and sent him sprawling at the feet of the grandfather man. Hudson’s Bay had bought Skye. They would take him back across the waters.
Victoria’s heart ached and she felt a flood of anguish. She had to help him, somehow, some way. But how?
“Well, Barnaby Skye, we have you now,” the grandfather man said.
Her man did not reply, but kept looking at the blue skies and the wild lands, as if not even seeing the grandfather man.
“It’ll be the dungeon for a deserter, Skye.”
“It’s Mister Skye, sir.”
The grandfather man laughed derisively. “Tie him up. We’ll be off for York Factory,” he said.
With that, some of the Hudson’s Bay men bound Skye’s arms behind his back.
Frantically, she maneuvered through the spellbound Bloods, who watched all this with intense interest. Only Skye’s captor wasn’t watching. He was cocking and uncocking his new rifle and sighting down its steel barrel.
She wormed forward, past the proper place for women and toward the warriors who crowded around Skye and the Hudson’s Bay men. She had to let him know! A Blood warrior noticed her and barred the way. The council was not a proper place for a woman. He growled at her, and she stepped back, slipped away, and tried again at a different point, only to be rebuffed by more warriors who eyed her coldly for violating
the custom.
She was on the brink of a whipping or death or torture, and yet she had to let Skye know she was there. Just one glance, one meeting of the eyes, that’s all she could ask. She found a way, this time through a crowd of the Hudson’s Bay men, trappers, and vogageurs, who stood amid their piles of gear and canoes. This time she darted through, stood not ten yards from her man, and waited, hoping that her spirit-helper, Magpie, would reveal her to Skye and conceal her from the eyes of the Siksika.
He did turn, did see her, and in one eternal moment they faced each other. In one moment that lasted forever and was written upon the stars, she and he saw each other, and it was like lightning from a cloud struck the earth so great was the force of their gaze. And then, after the briefest of smiles, he turned away—to protect her, to conceal the great event from these Siksika and Hudson’s Bay. No one had noticed. She fled backward, her heart racing. She had to free him. She had to escape these people. She might never see him again. She knew his vow: they would not take him alive. If he had no way to escape before they put him in the big canoe and took him across the water, he would find a way to go to the land of the spirits.
Somehow in the confusion she retreated without rebuke or trouble, and soon stood among the women, once again looking through a wall of Blood warriors at the pale men as they prepared to leave. She choked back a flood of emotion. He had come for her. Alone, through the land of the dangerous Siksika, he had come. He had seen her at Berger’s post, heard her cry, and had come. Tears welled. No man had ever given her as much. Skye’s love had endured, survived even the cuts and wounds she had inflicted on it—and on him. Skye’s love had triumphed over her own folly and unfaithfulness. Skye, not Beckwourth, had come to rescue her if he could. She could not stop weeping now, as she slipped quietly back from the gathering and watched from under the boughs of an aspen.
The grandfather’s men were dividing into two parties. The trappers in buckskins formed one horseback party and headed west, while the burly voyageurs in the red and blue lowered their canoes into the Belly River and began loading them with mounds of peltries and supplies. Others lifted great packs they were going to carry. She marveled at how much one of these men could carry. They attached a pack to Skye’s back and made him carry it barefooted. Soon his feet would bleed. And then a man with a strange device of metal and wood and cloth and leather, a sort of bag connected with a flute, made this device wail mournfully, its melancholic howl piercing the quiet. She knew about this thing that Skye called a bagpipe, and knew how that mournful noise spoke of war and blood and honor—and greatness. Only the white grandfathers had a piper who piped for them.
And so they departed after the piping of the man who squeezed the bag and made the beast howl. So terrible was the noise that all the camp dogs lifted their throats and howled, as if this was a great gathering of wolves. The black-clad grandfather got into a canoe with some of the voyageurs. Other voyageurs shouldered their packs and walked. She watched Skye walk away with them along the riverbank. He was stooped under the weight on his back and unbalanced because his hands were tied together. And yet he walked. He did not glance back to her. Perhaps he was saying, Good-bye, my beloved; good-bye now forever, until we meet again on a distant shore.
She watched until the Hudson’s Bay men and Skye vanished behind a wall of trees. Her heart walked beside him. The Bloods watched, too, and then the crowd dissolved. She hastened back to the lodge of Grandfather of Wolves, her mind awhirl with hopes. She had somehow escaped punishment—so far. But surely she had been seen. She hurried past the lodges where the Sun Dancers lay on their robes, recuperating. So great had been their ordeal that the various bands would not travel for a day or two. Grudgingly, Victoria admired the young men who had spilled their blood to honor Father Sun and thus win great blessings. The Siksika women were tenderly nursing all the dancers now, and honoring them for their courage.
No one was in the lodge of Grandfather of Wolves. She peered about, looking for any of her captors. How could it be? Were they all off visiting relatives in other bands, or collecting firewood, or doing one chore or another? A wild impulse struck her: go now, go swiftly, flee while she could. She forced herself to stop thinking such mad thoughts. They would find her and kill her. How could a small lone woman hide from warriors such as these? Surely they would know exactly where she went—along the Belly River behind the Hudson’s Bay men.
But why would they think that? They didn’t know that Skye was her man. They would think she’d fled south toward her Absaroka people, not north or east. But how might she survive? And how might she free her man? What would she eat?
Swiftly she surveyed the lodge. Everything she needed would be here—if she could only escape the village unseen. She knew she would try. Skye had given up his life to save her; she would give up her life to save him. There, hanging from a lodgepole, was the bow and quiver of her captor. She had never touched it. If a woman touched a warrior’s weapons she rendered them powerless, polluted. Skye had never felt that way, and enjoyed showing her how to hold his rifle or his knife.
Heart racing, she examined what else she might take. Skye would need moccasins, and there were several pairs that would fit him. She needed a knife, flint and steel, anything she could carry that would help her and Skye escape. Swiftly she ransacked the parfleches, scooping up jerky and a fat tube of pemmican. She found a sheathed skinning knife and a flint and striker. She dug out two pairs of moccasins, big ones for Skye, a spare pair for her, plus some patching leather. She found an awl. Gingerly—fear lacing her—she lowered the bow and quiver full of arrows. She rolled all this into a light summer robe, one she could carry, and tied it tight with thong. She peered out of the lodge door, seeing only a sleepy encampment, slowly recovering after the excitement and exhaustion of the high summer gathering. The sun rolled lazily toward the northwest. The day would fade in a while, and that was good. Darkness might hide a small, lithe Absaroka woman bent on fleeing the whole nation of Bloods. Sharply she studied the People. Plenty of them were about, tending their affairs, sunning, talking. She gathered her breath and her courage and walked west, bearing the rolled robe over her shoulder and carrying a woodcutting hatchet. She did not look directly at any of the Bloods, for fear they would register her passage, but instead penetrated the woods that grew back from the river, passing two or three women who were industriously hacking at branches. Then at last she was alone. She swung north, walking through pine forest laced with open parks, and emerged well north of the camp and almost around Belly Buttes. She knew she was on the river road the Hudson’s Bay men had taken.
As she walked, she wept.
forty—three
Skye staggered under the pack they had loaded on his back. His bare feet bled and smarted, and each step shot pain up his legs. He bore the bruises of the beating the Bloods had given him while counting coup. His shoulders ached almost beyond endurance, and his legs threatened to collapse under him.
Sir George Simpson eyed him now and then when his canoe drew alongside or they portaged around rapids. There was smugness in his face but he said nothing. He had his man at last, and the Crown would be pleased—and so would the honorable directors of Hudson’s Bay, back in London. The governor bore no burden, but had to walk like everyone else whenever walking was required.
Skye marveled at the voyageurs, burly Frenchmen who had carried two canoes on their backs across the Rockies for the forthcoming voyage down the Belly, Oldman, and South Saskatchewan Rivers, while others wrestled awesome loads. The party now consisted of Governor Simpson, two other Englishmen, and the French-speaking voyageurs. Skye supposed that the mountaineers and their horses were headed back to Fort Vancouver.
Skye contemplated his options. He would be swiftly tossed into a dungeon as a deserter from the Royal Navy, there to rot to an early death on the swill they would feed him. Or else they would simply return him to a man-of-war, there to slave away the rest of his days ’tween decks, the surly sea his prison. The n
avy was always shorthanded, and would make do with almost any sort of live body.
The overland contingent tramped along the rough banks of the Belly, which had incised itself deep into the undulating prairie above. They circled occasional sloughs that were choked with ducks, climbed steep bluffs where the river crowded passage, maneuvered through wooded hills to shortcut a bend in the river, but were never far from the Belly and the canoes of the rest of the party.
No one spoke to him until they halted for the night next to a glade of box elders back from the riverbank. Skye had somehow managed to endure, to make his battered body move, step by step, mile upon mile, to this place. He doubted he could do the same in the morning with his feet so badly lacerated.
“Well, Skye,” said Simpson, “you had the good sense to come along and not fight your fate. You may live or die as you choose; it’s of no consequence to me. Your feet are bleeding, and we’ll fit you up with moccasins in the morning. You’re a beast of burden, and that’s your entire value to us.”
“It’s Mister Skye, sir.”
Simpson chortled. “Caught by the Bloods. We knew we’d find you lurking about, just as you said you would. You haven’t the brains of an ant. You could be safe in St. Louis or the States by now.”
“Yes, I could have been safe long ago, sir. But I have chosen to pay my debts, and I have chosen to help one I love.”
Simpson looked faintly surprised, but only for a fleeting moment. “It’s all nonsense, trying to butter me up so I’ll feel some sympathy. Forget it, Skye. We’ll feed you well—that’s how one cares for a beast of burden—and then truss you up. Don’t try to escape or it will go harder for you tomorrow. You see, Skye, the arm of the Crown reaches everywhere, even here.”
Dark Passage Page 25
