“Here, mate.”
Joy and anguish flooded through Victoria. He was so close! She thought he was to the left of the embers, but she didn’t know for sure.
“C’est un ours!” someone bellowed.
“It’s a bear!”
“Sacre bleu!”
Now she smelled it. A bear. She thrilled to it. A bear, for Skye.
“Chase it away before it gets into the packs.”
“I thought I heard horses.”
“I thought I did too. But bears sound like anything.”
“Formidable!”
Men scurried about. Someone threw some wood on the embers, but it didn’t catch. One man loomed close, a shadow blotting out stars, and then she realized it wasn’t a man, it was Grandfather Bear. She huddled still and quiet. The great hulk paused, sniffed, grunted, and went on.
She desperately wanted to run to Skye, but held herself in check. The wood on the embers smoked, the smell eddying her way, but didn’t ignite. She waited until the camp quieted, aching to do something, anything. She needed to find the horses. They held everything she possessed except the quiver on her back and her bow, and the knife in her hand.
The night settled again, and she judged that the time had come. There was no sign of a moon, but for the moment she could walk among them and no one would imagine that the small figure looming above their robes was the woman of Mister Skye. She stood, padded resolutely into a camp that was fully awake, and hoped for the best.
forty—seven
Victoria edged toward the camp of the Hudson’s Bay men, wondering how she was going to do what she had to do. The night had cloaked Mother Earth, and she could not even see her own moccasins, much less the sleeping men who lay under stars, without a fire now. Should she simply yell for Skye? But what if he was tied up and could not get free?
She didn’t know, and that made her faint at heart. Even the starlight had vanished, and she realized the sky was now overcast. How could she find him, find the horses, escape? Many of these men were awake. They had just dealt with a bear. How easy it would be for any of them to reach up and catch her as she passed.
She ached to find the fire, find an ember to orient herself, but not even that small comfort was afforded her. She compelled herself to walk forward, until she tripped over one of the men, who grumbled, muttered something, and fell silent. She could not go farther without stumbling over many more. There were twice ten men here, one of them Skye.
She backed away, knowing she had no recourse except to wait for moonlight or dawn—any sort of light that would permit her to drift through the camp without stumbling over the voyageurs. She would need light as well to find the horses.
The gloom persisted through the long night. She could see neither stars nor moon. She heard the gentle gurgle of water to her right and knew she was close to the river. When at last the day began to quicken, she realized she was too late. Some of the voyageurs were already stirring, standing, stretching, heading for the bushes. She retreated into brush and hid there, her heart heavy. On this day the canoes would take Skye away forever.
Then she realized this need not be. She stood, a figure as vague to the Hudson’s Bay men as they were to her, and stumbled through the gauze of night to the river, with only her ears to guide her. There nearby were two long canoes made of the white men’s fabric over the ribs and sealed with some sort of shiny paint. They rested side by side, upside down, not far from the riverbank.
She slipped her knife from its sheath and approached the vessels. The next task was easy, but noisy. She slashed the skin of the canoe, long stripes, the work of bear claws, one after another, on each side of the ribs, many slices. No one loomed out of the murk to stop her. She performed the same mutilation upon the other canoe, gouging great holes in both of them. Every stroke of the knife sounded like thunder to her, and yet she knew most of the noise was camouflaged by the omnipresent gurgle of the river. She could not yet see her handiwork and worried that it might not be enough. But she knew it would take the voyageurs a while to repair the damage and load the canoes.
But did it help? She could not say. Now she had to find her horses. Maybe, with horses, she could follow the river as fast as the voyageurs could paddle—though she doubted it. The voyageurs, going downriver, would speed Skye to his destiny. The day bloomed into a drab gray, and she retreated from the stirring camp and up a grassy slope to find her horses and hide. From the height she could see the general shape of the country—the thick band of woods along the river, the plains rising on either side, some rocky escarpments, insolated patches of pine.
And no horses. What would the Hudson’s Bay grandfather do if they found the horses, each horse laden with Blackfoot gear? She hardly dared imagine. She felt hungry but put aside her needs, as she had long ago taught herself to do. Some things were more important than the howling of the body.
She settled into a small hollow in a slope, well concealed by tall grasses, and peered down upon the camp. She could not yet make out Skye, though most of the men were up and stirring about. And then she knew. The last one lying on the ground was Skye, because he had been trussed up and could not move. The light thickened a little, but it was still so dark she could barely make out forms. She examined the grassy ridges around her and spotted her horses a long way away, grazing together. They would be small dark dots to the Hudson’s Bay men, but she feared the sharp-eyed white men would see them anyway. There was little she could do.
Then she heard the rasp of excited voices and saw the men head for the riverbank, plunging into a wooded area. She could not make out words but knew they had found the damaged canoes. The grandfather was visible now, a black spot in the vague light. Anger and suspicion floated on the quickening breezes. Several went to examine Skye—she could see him lying there now—and looked at the bound wrists and ankles. Maybe they thought he had done it. Maybe not. Maybe they thought Grandfather Bear had done it. She had cut the fabric in strips, as if bear claws had ripped it.
Two of the voyageurs lifted the canoes and carried them into the open meadows, to where the fire had been in the evening. So they were going to patch the holes, and she suspected it would not take them as long as she hoped. She wanted the repairs to take all day, but white men had many tricks and did things that amazed the People. If they made guns of metal, they could repair canoes. As the day whitened—it would be gloomy at best, with thick gray clouds hiding Grandfather Sun—she saw the men at work on the canoes, cutting away the shredded fabric. Others stood about, examining the grassy hills, looking for signs of those who had done this thing. She froze, didn’t move a muscle then, as she peered through the grasses. She prayed that they would not see the ponies. They didn’t seem to look in that direction, back from the river, and she realized a swell of benchland hid the animals.
With the horses, she would follow them and keep up. Without them, she would fall farther and farther behind. They untied Skye’s arms and legs, and she ached to signal him. He stood stiffly, barely able to use his freed body. He paid no attention to the canoes or the feverish work being done on them. Instead, he stood facing the hills away from the river, facing her almost. Then he slowly lifted both arms upward, toward her, toward one he did not see but whose presence he sensed. Ah, how much a torment that was, seeing him there, lifting his arms to her, letting her know. She dared not stand and could not reply. But then her friend the magpie flew close, alighted near her, and flew powerfully away. Then Skye was staring straight at her hiding place. She half stood one tiny moment and then folded back into the safety of the grassy hollow. Perhaps he had seen; perhaps not.
Thank thee, Magpie.
She could do nothing but hide. He could do nothing but perform his morning ablutions and eat the gruel the HBC men had boiled over a fire. A gray day ticked by while the voyageurs worked on the canoes. Some were shaping pieces of cloth and sewing them to the canoes. Others were collecting pitch from pines, heating it, and caulking the repairs. Soon they would have the c
anoes done and would be off. So her efforts hadn’t amounted to more than a half-day delay. She squinted upslope, toward the horses, and found that they had vanished. She didn’t know where they were.
Rain began, a mist at first, and then a cold pelting drizzle, and she huddled miserably in her unsheltered hollow. Below, the voyageurs ignored the wetness and continued their repairs. She watched the grandfather pace restlessly, a lion on a leash, wanting to be off. Her gaze was forever on Skye. He obviously possessed nothing but the clothing he wore, but he wrapped a robe around him to ward off the icy rain. The campfire began to smoke, and she knew the rain was extinguishing it little by little.
All that morning she debated what she might do. She had her bow and quiver of arrows, and contemplated ways she might use it: an arrow into each of the repaired canoes, for instance. But that would expose her to them. Now, with the rain wetting and weakening the sinew of the bowstring, she knew that she had no weapon at all save for her knife. Skye paused now and then and stared directly at her, or at least at the place where she crouched in wet, cold grass. She ached to know what he wanted her to do, ached to receive some sort of signal or instruction from him.
But maybe she had it wrong. Maybe he needed instruction from her. She needed a plan, and she needed to tell him. Escape would not be up to him: he could do nothing. It was entirely up to her. He knew one thing: who had damaged the canoes and why. She wondered if maybe he was signaling her. He walked about almost randomly, then lowered himself to the ground on the periphery of the camp and lay down, imitating sleep. Yes, there was a message in that. He would try to lie on the edge of the next camp. She watched him repeat the whole thing and lie down in the same place. In the next camp he would sleep on the periphery, and on the upriver side. She swiftly lifted her bow and quiver and lowered it, acknowledging she had understood.
He lifted his bear claw necklace and pawed the air with it. She didn’t know what that meant. Could it be that the voyageurs thought a bear had clawed the fabric of the canoes? Did he merely mean that a bear had come last night? Before she could grasp what that was about, the grandfather came to Skye and ordered him to the canoes. The voyageurs were testing one in the river and loading the other. Soon they would be off, paddling easily down the Bow and then the Oldman River, many suns, many nights.
All but Skye were now employed with packing and loading the canoes, and none was remotely interested in what might lie in the grassy bluffs above the river. That was fine. She stood boldly. Skye saw her at once even though the grandfather had made him carry things to the canoes. She did not tarry, but trotted upslope and over the crest, out of sight. The two horses grazed just a little way away. She hiked through the cold drizzle, feeling hunger and chill. Swiftly she caught her Blackfoot warhorse, wiped the pad saddle dry, and climbed on, arranging her wide skirts. Then she collected the lead line of the packhorse. Nothing had been lost. They had simply been panicked by the bear, broken their tethers, and had drifted to this place after that. She repaired the reins with a knot and rode downriver. If she hurried and kept well back from the wooded bottoms, she might keep pace—almost—with the swift canoes. That sustained her more than food or warmth ever could. Somehow, some way, she would rescue Skye.
All that day she drove her horses through rain and cold, barely noticing the protests of her body. She lost track of the canoes, and when she sometimes turned toward a bluff or promontory, she could not see the canoes on the whirling river. Now she feared she was very far ahead or far behind, and would lose Skye after all. She had to rest the horses, but the river never rested, and the canoes required little more than steering.
But it would not be like that. The Hudson’s Bay men would stop now and then to stretch. They would cook a meal, maybe, or use the bushes, or just walk a little. No one was chasing them; they didn’t know of her presence.
She saw that the river made an arc ahead, and cut across the neck of land late in the day, hoping to get ahead. But when she reached the river again, she found they were ahead of her after all. They were setting up camp straight down the bluff from where she sat her horse.
She heard a shout. In that one fleeting moment, they had seen her.
forty—eight
Victoria knew she could escape if she chose; the voyageurs were on foot and she was horsed. She chose not to. Instead, she steered her two Blackfoot ponies straight down the slope toward the Hudson’s Bay men. Skye watched alertly, his face a mask.
She didn’t quite know what she would do. Nothing about her betrayed her Absaroka origins to the casual eye, and nothing about her horse furniture betrayed anything but Blackfoot manufacture. Nor would these men know that she was in any way connected to Skye.
They had unloaded the two big canoes and beached them. Piles of gear lay about, and a few bedrolls had been tossed into the bankside grass. There were many of them, and now they all stared at her, not overly concerned by the appearance of a lone Indian woman. She decided she would not speak but use the hand signs. Maybe she could stay the night. That was what she would ask.
The grandfather in black stared at her, his gaze relentless. He was a formidable man with the eyes of an eagle, his instincts keen. She would have to be wary of him. The others, the voyageurs, were big, muscular, dark men who spoke that other tongue, French. There were two additional ones from the grandfather’s land who spoke Skye’s tongue.
She peered at last toward her beloved, giving not the slightest sign of recognition. She saw Skye survey the spare horse, approving of the saddle and the goods tied behind its cantle. But none of what passed subtly between them was evident to the Hudson’s Bay men. It was good to see Skye, even if he was so helpless. Soon he would be free!
One of the Englishmen made the hand signs, and she responded. She was cold and wet and hungry. The rain had made her bow useless. Could she share their food and stay the night?
Who was she?
She was a woman of the People, returning to her village after a visit.
Where were her people?
Far to the south.
What band of Siksika did she belong to?
She had lived with the Kainah, the Bloods. She would ride through the land of the Piegans soon.
The man translated his signs to the black-clad grandfather, who nodded. Skye had watched all this, reading the fingers and hands.
The signs continued. The man told her that this was a Hudson’s Bay Company camp, very friendly with the Siksika, much trading, good to the People, and she was welcome. This was the camp of the greatest chief of the white men, and he was welcoming her for the night. She would be safe among his men. She was welcome to feast on a doe they had shot during the day. Soon they would have it hung and butchered. In the morning she could go her way and they would go downriver in their big canoes.
She nodded and dismounted. She untied her own bed robe, led her horses to grass a little distant, and picketed them. She hoped they would not notice that she did not unsaddle them. But Skye noticed. He also noticed the sheathed knife at her waist. That night he and she would escape—if all went well. Even now he was unrolling his robes as close to the horses as he dared. And laying his old robe in a way that would make his feet point straight at the ponies. Aiee!
The men had tied the doe to a box elder limb and some were gutting it, while others fed a hot fire. She and Skye exchanged glances, and she ached to know what stirred his soul just then. What did he feel for her? Was anything left? She would weep when she could, and tell him of her grief, her mistakes, her yearnings. Maybe he would reject her. But at least she would free him if she could. That would repay him a little for the sorrows she had given to him.
The grandfather in black told Skye to help with the butchering, so he did, paying her no heed at all. They were both going to great lengths to hide their relationship.
“Don’t get any notions about escaping, Skye,” the man said. “We’ll be watching. I’m posting guards tonight. The squaw’s horses may tempt you, but you’re on your way t
o the Crown.”
The grandfather stared thoughtfully at the prisoner. Perhaps he suspected something. She felt a chill run through her.
She feigned no knowledge of what she had heard in Skye’s tongue, but was glad to learn about the guards. It was good to know of trouble.
The voyageurs eyed her now and then, not missing her lithe, young beauty. She grew aware of the darting gazes and ignored them. But they made her cautious. She decided she would ultimately bed close to her ponies that night, but would unroll her robe close to the camp at first.
The drizzle had dwindled to cold mist, and then, as the yellow eyes prepared a meal, quit altogether. It would be a wet, cold, miserable night warmed only by their cheerful fire. She doubted the heavens would clear, and this night would be as black as the last one. She did not know how she would deal with that. She ached to give Skye a knife, but doubted it would help if they tied his wrists behind his back. He had signaled that they did, holding his arms behind him, wrists pressed together. She would have to do it, in plain sight of the guards—somehow.
The voyageurs boiled the deer meat in a kettle, adding wild roots and herbs to season their stew, and soon they handed her a bowl. She ate with relish, utterly starved for want of food the entire day. She held out her tin bowl for more, and they laughed.
“Injuns got hollow legs,” said one. “Feast or starve, that’s the way of ’em.”
She didn’t let on that she understood, and knew it was a criticism. This was not a moment to reveal anything or show any displeasure. Instead, she smiled.
One filled her bowl again. They fed Skye well enough and then trussed him up. He never glanced at her, but stood with his back to her so she could see exactly how the thong wrapped his wrists. Then they let him sit down beside his robe, removed his moccasins, and trussed his ankles. One of them settled against a tree, rifle in hand, the guard she knew would watch that night.
It had grown dark. These men were weary, and so was she. In the last light she checked her ponies, making sure the saddles were tight and all was ready. Then she rolled up in her robe, oblivious of the stares and the almost palpable yearning for her that she felt around her. These were men without a woman. They weren’t on the warpath, and they wanted her.
Dark Passage Page 28
