Downriver

by Richard S. Wheeler

  At last Marsh halted for a meal. A cool night wind whipped the light of the bonfires. He and Trenholm and young Bonfils descended to the gravel spit to examine the shattered right paddle wheel along with his carpenter and blacksmith. Skye quietly splashed across a flowage and joined them. In the dim light of a distant bonfire, and the ineffectual light of a bird’s-eye lantern, Skye thought he saw half a dozen shattered paddles, each of which would need to be unbolted from the wheel and replaced.

  Marsh fumed. “Get busy. I want this repaired by daylight,” he snapped at his carpenter.

  The man started to protest, and then held his peace.

  Marsh noticed Skye. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking.”

  “Go back with the others. I’ll deal with you later.”

  Skye lifted his battered top hat. “Deal with us?”

  “I’m busy. Don’t get in my way.”

  “We’d like to get some of our food out of the cabin of the flatboat. We have hungry children to feed.”

  “Skye, get the hell out of here.”

  Bonfils laughed. “You’re out of luck. It’s the company you keep. Those gents are smugglers. Maybe you are too.”

  So that was it. Skye wasn’t in a mood to argue with the master or his ham-fisted mate or the scion of the company.

  He splashed across the shallows again, headed straight to the flatboat which was riding the water loaded with the last of the ship’s cargo.

  He walked up a plank, boarded, headed aft to the cabin, all without protest from the deckmen. No one stopped him. Inside, he opened a food box, pulled out a sack of cornmeal, found a kettle, a firesteel, and other items, and returned to shore. An hour later Victoria and Lame Deer fed cornmeal mush to the children, and then the rest.

  Lame Deer sang, this time in her own reedy tongue, smoothing the hair of her children, her voice soft and melodic, the cursing of the nearby rivermen contrapuntal. The children nestled, and she held them close, blanketing them with her courage as the darkness enveloped them all.

  Skye sat in the dark, his belly full of fried corn mush, wondering whether to make his fate or wait for it.

  twenty-one

  A low growl from No Name awakened Skye. He peered about, disoriented, a thick ground fog obscuring everything in the gray predawn light. He could not remember where he was; then the hard gravel he was sleeping on reminded him. He was on a spit of land on the left bank of an oxbow of the Missouri River, an island of sorts but only for the moment. When the river dropped another few inches, it would be shoreline.

  He had learned to respect No Name’s warnings. The dog was an ally rather than a pet, an independent, cantankerous, wily peer who made common cause with Skye and Victoria, but whose tail rarely wagged, and whose affection was fleeting and reserved. But the very qualities that had made No Name a master of survival had been offered to Skye; and now the dog was softly warning his human companion of trouble.

  Skye glanced about. He and Victoria had spread their robes beside some red willow brush, next to a stack of driftwood. She did not stir. And yet he felt a moving presence in that camp. He remembered that the Cheyenne woman and her two children were closer to the shore, nestled in the roots of a cottonwood. He didn’t know where Gill and Ballard were and didn’t care. The flatboat bobbed nearby, a gray blur, with some of Marsh’s crew aboard. Just downstream, on the other side of the gravel bar, floated the Otter in shallow water. The ship was obscured by fog. The noise of repair had ceased in the middle of the night, either because Marsh called a halt or the carpenter and his mates had finished installing new paddles.

  Skye lay quietly on his back, listening closely, seeing nothing but sensing trouble. He pulled back his robe, collected his mountain rifle, pulled his powderhorn over his neck, and then lifted his hightop moccasins over his feet and laced them. He nudged Victoria, who sat up in one lithe motion, glanced about, and silently collected her bow and quiver.

  The dog was pointing toward the mountain of fur bales stored on the gravelly spit, and Skye thought perhaps the rank smell of the furs and uncured hides had drawn a predator, maybe even a bear. He sensed but didn’t hear motion around the pile.

  Then he saw the shapes of moving men, walking single file, filtering through the foggy dawn, so close he thought surely he and Victoria would be discovered. Indians. That much he knew. Now there were more, scores of them peering and poking, examining the flatboat without boarding it, and vanishing in the fog downstream, where the riverboat rode the night on tethers tied to trees.

  Many Indians. Victoria was cussing softly. “Lakota,” she whispered. “Goddam war party. Painted up.”

  He couldn’t fathom how she knew, but Indians could recognize one another far better than whites.

  Painted for war. But probably not against whites. The Teton or Lakota Sioux as well as the Dakota Sioux had been at peace with the traders for years.

  He couldn’t put numbers to this crowd, but there were plenty of Sioux around, poking, probing, reconnoitering, maybe looking for easy plunder. They would find it. Marsh had posted no pickets and had assumed he would be safe enough in this friendly country. Not that Marsh was equipped to fight a war. He knew there were but five or six rifles aboard, and maybe a few pistols, and even those weapons were largely owned by passengers, mostly engagés returning to St. Louis. There was the six-pounder mounted on the foredeck, maybe still loaded—and probably useless. Anyone trying to aim or arm it would be mowed down in a hail of arrows.

  Skye sighed, wanting to act For much of this trip he had been under the command of others, his own will counting for nothing. His fate was not in his own hands. He was at the mercy of the company, and its factors in the posts, and then its riverboat captain and his crew, and was finally in the hands of the operators of a flatboat; men apparently engaged in some sort of illegal traffic.

  He had, moreover, taken upon himself the protection of a Cheyenne woman and her children. So there he was, unable to give a command and see it followed, as he had when he was leading a trapping brigade. Quite the reverse: here he was expected to obey instantly. Even Gill and Ballard expected it. Ever since he had landed in North America, he had controlled his destiny; and now he was not in command, either of himself or others.

  He had no friends among Marsh or his officers; and no friends on the flatboat either, not after tackling Shorty Ballard and seizing the tiller and steering the flatboat toward the Otter.

  He watched more shadowy figures patrol the site as the light quickened noticeably. At any moment these Sioux would be discovered and all hell would break loose. And yet the Sioux had not engaged in bloodletting. Their tomahawks and knives rested in their sheaths. They probably had not yet figured out what this camp was about, and what they might do without resistance if they chose.

  Skye supposed the best bet for his people would be the flatboat, which could be unloosed quickly and supply them with the safety of water as well as the drift of a current. He nodded toward it, and Victoria nodded back.

  Barely forty feet away, obscured by the fog, a knot of warriors huddled, whispering furiously, plainly at odds, confused, and wary. There was traffic now, warriors walking back and forth, splashing across the gravelly shallows between this meandering spit of gravel and the one lower down, where the riverboat bobbed on the quiet river.

  Victoria slipped back into the brush and disappeared, and Skye knew she was awakening the Cheyenne woman and maybe reconnoitering.

  Skye had a decision to make and only moments to make it. He knew somehow it was portentous, and the wrong move could cost him his life, and maybe Victoria’s too. He could shepherd Victoria and the Cheyennes out of the area before the daylight pierced the veil of fog, using the braided gravelly islands as their escape route. Or he could try to save the furs and boat and ultimately, Pierre Chouteau’s company. Almost half of the annual returns were stacked there on the gravel. A fortune by any measure. He could try to keep hotheads, including Bonfils, from starting a fight they woul
d only lose. These warriors, after all, had yet to lift a war axe, fire an arrow, or lance a sleeping boatman.

  He knew what he had to do, and finished dressing, clamping his black beaver topper to his head. Then he whistled, and then he called.

  “Gents, come visit me; I’m right here, plain sight if you move a little closer. Welcome, Lakota!”

  His voice seemed muted in the choking fog; had anyone heard?

  “Hey, Lakota! Dakota! Here I am!”

  Now at last shadowy shapes materialized, and in moments he found himself surrounded by warriors, eight, ten, fifteen, armed and dangerous. They were Sioux all right; tall, sinewy, light-skinned, wearing war garb, which is to say, very little but paint. Some wore eagle feathers in their hair; war honors. Others wore medicine bundles or amulets suspended from their necks. Most wore summer moccasins. They were vermillioned and ochered, in chevrons, stripes, handprints, and mystical designs.

  Skye felt the prickle he always felt when he considered how easily an arrow could pierce him. But he lifted his hands and made the peace sign, the brother sign, the friend sign. They stared.

  He identified himself with the sky sign, and some recognition filled their faces. His name had come to mean something among the western tribes. He had fought for Victoria’s people, the Crow.

  Finally a headman of some sort emerged from the thick fog, and stared at Skye. This one was a long-nosed giant, a foot taller than Skye, built like a bear.

  “Who you?”

  That was English. The chief had been around a trading post.

  “I am Mister Skye. My wife and I and others are assisting the captain of that fireboat. He is making repairs.”

  The words didn’t register. This one knew all too few.

  So Skye told him again, simple words, many signs.

  “What will you give us?”

  Ah, there it was.

  “Gather your warriors here and I will give you food and a gift.”

  He wasn’t sure what sort of gift. The headman weighed all that, eating up time.

  “Be quick about it,” Skye said. “They will shoot you if they see you.” If those aboard the riverboat weren’t all dead.

  He heard some of the crew that had spent the night on the flatboat talking. The daylight was intensifying. He heard a scuffle, some grunts, and then the boatmen, along with Gill and Ballard, appeared, prisoners of still more Sioux. They looked frightened but knew enough to shut up, their gaze fixed on Skye, who stood in the center of a mob of fifty warriors.

  “Who are you?” Skye asked the headman.

  “Bull Calf, a war leader of the Sans Arcs, as we are called by the white men. We are going to kill the lying Pawnee, and bring back slaves and many horses.”

  Bull Calf was a noted war leader, a force to be reckoned with. “How many are you?” Skye asked.

  “We are many. Ten times the fingers of my hands.”

  Skye gambled. “You will need to cross the Big River to go to the Pawnee.”

  “Yes. That is why we are here; this is a good place. But we found you and the fireboat.”

  Skye calculated swiftly. “We will give you a gift. We will take you and your ponies on the fireboat across the Big River. Then you will be strong and fresh. If the fireboat is not fixed, we will take you across the Big River in that flatboat” He pointed. “A few at a time. Then you can kill the Pawnee.”

  Bull Calf translated for his warriors, who listened solemnly, craning their necks to see Marsh’s boat slowly emerge from the fog in the morning sun. He saw curiosity, fear, anger, and awe on their faces. Most had never even seen such a boat, much less ridden on one. And here was a chance to cross the Big River without getting wet or losing horses or endangering themselves.

  Bull Calf nodded.

  But even as he nodded, he saw Bonfils and Marsh’s boatmen on the fog-shrouded riverboat swing their six-pounder around until its muzzle was a black hole facing this throng.

  twenty-two

  Skye yelled. The Sans Arcs fled, stumbling over one another to escape the bore of that six-pounder on the hurricane deck thirty yards distant.

  Dawn light glinted on the brass barrel. Bonfils, wielding a punk, jammed it into the touchhole. Smoke erupted. Skye felt grape blow the top hat off his head, sear his ribs, smash into his thigh. Felt himself punched backward, flying through air.

  A sharp boom reached his ears as he fell. He heard screams; saw warriors bloom red; saw Ballard fly backward and tumble to earth; heard a child’s sob and then his pain deafened him and he heard nothing but the roaring of his pulse.

  He heard, from some vast distance, the roar of the six-pounder again; horses splashing across the gravelly flowages; the ululating howls of the Indians; the crack of rifles and carbines, and again, the bark of the cannon. He writhed on the ground.

  Victoria raced up to him, weeping and cursing.

  “Where, where, dammit?”

  Skye ran his hand along his ribs, and found blood there and seared flesh, and hurt that lanced him and stopped his breathing. He tried to suck air but raw pain stopped his lungs. His shoulder hurt viciously and shot pain along his arm, numbing his hand. His right thigh stung—pounding, throbbing, relentless pain shot up his leg and into his belly. Nausea engulfed him; he wanted to puke, but couldn’t move his lungs. Dizziness engulfed him.

  He gasped for air; wheezed and sucked, but the pain paralyzed his diaphragm. Something had shattered ribs and torn him up. He felt his bones click and scrape when he moved. He felt himself whirl out of consciousness, and fought his way back. Stay awake. Blackness hovered. Sticky blood soaked his shirt, hot, red blood. His bad arm stopped working. He needed sweet air, and his lungs were quitting.

  “Goddam, goddamn,” she sobbed.

  “Can’t breathe.”

  Skye drifted in and out of the world. Once, when vomit rose in his throat, he tried to puke, but he couldn’t. It settled down his gullet, sour and obscene.

  Sobbing and fierce, Victoria poulticed the wounds, all the while giving Skye a running account of the battle. The Sans Arcs fled to the left bluff, carrying three or four wounded and maybe some dead. A few of them formed a rear guard, shooting their carbines at the riverboat crew on the hurricane deck.

  He heard shouts, howls, sobs, and anger. He tried to sit up, and fell back, with Victoria snapping at him to lie still. He wanted to orient himself. His pain had melded into rage at Bonfils, who had destroyed a peaceful parley, wounded him and others, and made enemies of the Sans Arcs and other Sioux.

  He lay defeated, sick, nauseous, wondering if he was dying, feeling the pain stab in and out of his body with each breath. Then he turned his head and saw Ballard, lying still, with a blue hole in his forehead. Gill was sitting beside his partner, dazed, silent, and bitter.

  Painfully, Skye rolled his gaze toward the sobbing he heard behind him, in the cottonwoods. There, Lame Deer sat, weeping, the still form of her son, Sound Comes Back After Shouting, in her lap, while Singing Rain clung to her mother.

  Victoria was weeping.

  The grapeshot, fired at that distance, had spread into a broad pattern, scything down every living thing in a twenty-yard swath, including a Cheyenne child.

  “He dead?” Skye gasped.

  “Through the neck.”

  Skye sagged into the earth, desolated, hot tears collecting in his weathered face. Two dead. Others injured. He felt too nauseous and weak to do anything but lie quietly and listen to the ebbing sounds of flight. Soon, all he heard was flowing water, and all he felt was pain and the warmth of the sun.

  Victoria was working on him, shooting pain through him as she dabbed at the rib wound.

  “Stop it,” Skye muttered, but she didn’t. “Can’t breathe …”

  A shadow crossed his face, and he looked up to find Marsh and Trenholm and Bonfils staring down at him.

  “You alive, Skye?” Marsh asked.

  Stupid question. Skye glared.

  “This is a mess,” Marsh said. “I don’t know what hap
pened. You’re welcome to ship’s stores. We’ve some morphia.”

  “Go away,” Victoria snarled.

  Gill rose, faced Bonfils. “You killed Shorty,” he said in a low and deadly voice.

  Marsh stared at Bonfils.

  “Didn’t know you were in that mob of thieving redskins,” Bonfils said.

  Skye struggled to focus on Bonfils. “They weren’t thieving.”

  “They were painted up. I saw them from my cabin; painted up, carrying bows and tomahawks, creeping through the fog, getting ready to jump the Otter, steal every pack of fur sitting there on that spit.”

  Skye listened quietly, too sick to talk, but Red Gill wasn’t silent.

  “Goddammit, Mister Skye had them quieted down. They were going after Pawnee, and planned to cross the river here and ran into us. He offered them a ride across, and their chief, Bull Calf, agreed. It was all settled, peaceful.”

  “A ride on my boat?” That was Marsh’s voice, waxing indignant.

  “It or the flatboat,” Skye mumbled.

  “What gave you the right to tell them that? I wouldn’t have a bunch of filthy warriors and their crowbait horses on my boat. It was a trick. Once aboard, they’d loot it and kill us all.”

  Skye didn’t argue. Blackness crept through him.

  “Marsh, they was just looking for a ride and maybe a meal and maybe even a trade or two,” Gill said. “Now, I’m going to St. Louis, and I’m gonna visit Gen’ral Clark, and he’s going to hear the whole story, and I’m going to blame Bonfils here, you can damn well count on it.”

  Marsh snarled something.

  Bonfils began to snap, like a crackling fire. “I drove off marauders. I spotted them in the fog, sneaking up. I saved the company’s furs. And that’s how Clark and the company will see it … .” Bonfils sounded excited, his voice harsh and pitched. Skye felt his wounds throbbing.

  “You killed that little boy. Simon MacLees’s boy,” Skye said. “And MacLees is going to hear about it, I promise you that.”