by Win Blevins
Well, Sam reminded himself, he’d told Bos’n that she danced with several men last year, and went to the bushes with at least one, Red Shirt.
Polly jumped faster into the tune, and Sam took a break.
Other Mojave women joined in, and several men. Among them—surprise! Last year two teenagers had tried to steal Paladin, Skinny and Stout, Sam called them in his mind. He had gotten her back only by chasing them halfway across the river, and one nearly drowned under a cottonwood log beached on a sand bar. But Skinny and Stout were dancing now, and apparently having a good time.
A pretty woman held out her hand to Sam, smiling. She was smiling, and she said something in her language, probably asking him to dance.
He couldn’t help looking lingeringly at her breasts. “No,” he said.
She said whatever it was again, and reached out and fingered his hair. Women always seemed to like Sam’s white hair.
“No,” said Sam again, and took her hand away. He wished he wanted to touch a woman, hold a woman, lie down with a woman.
She turned to the next man without a hint of regret. It was Robiseau, one of the French-Canadians, and he whirled away with her. Sam thought of Robiseau as Merry One Tooth, for the number of dentures he had in the upper front, which he showed off in a perpetual lunatic grin.
When Merry One Tooth danced off, his wife glared after him. Then Red Shirt came up and motioned to her, and she danced off with the chief. Robiseau winked at her.
At least half the trappers now were bouncing along, and both trapper wives were dancing with Mojave men.
Polly changed the tune to a sea shanty, a slow capstan song that would give all the men a chance to ease the women close:
When Ham and Shem and Japhet, they walked the capstan ’round,
Upon the strangest vessel that was ever outward bound,
The music of their voices from wave to welkin rang,
As they sang the first sea shanty that sailors ever sang.
“Don’t you want to dance?” said Hannibal.
“Think I’ll turn in,” said Sam. Away from temptation, he thought, and with my memories.
“Sure.”
As Hannibal disappeared into the darkness, Sam wondered if his friend wanted a woman. Probably so. Even magicians liked sex.
He stretched out on his blankets, reached to where he knew Coy would be, and scratched the coyote’s head. In the dark, when he couldn’t see, the smell and sound of the river were stronger. He remembered the brute force of its current—pound and splash, spin and suck. Its whirlpools pulled him to its bottom and to sleep.
SAM LOOKED AT his arms, which were all scratched up. Sweat was running into the scratches—the August sun felt like coals in a woodstove. He frowned across at Hannibal, who grinned. Hannibal’s arms were probably worse than Sam’s.
They were standing ankle deep in the river cutting more cane for the two rafts. It took a lot of float power to carry twenty-three people and their cargo across the swift, turbulent Colorado. This gear included barrels for water, blacksmith tools, tomahawks, traps, kegs of gunpowder, and much more. There were the trade goods for Indians. And the trappers bore their own gear. A typical man had a rifle, a butcher knife, two horns for powder, a blanket, an extra pair of moccasins, and a pouch containing a bar of lead, a tool for making the lead into balls, a patch knife, a fire-striker, char cloth, and so on, altogether another ten percent of his body weight.
Sam and Hannibal shouldered the last loads of cane on both shoulders and labored upstream along the bank. When they got to where the other men were binding the cane into the rafts, they dumped their loads and sagged onto the ground.
Coy mewled. He often seemed to pity men doing hard labor.
The Mojaves were gathered around to see the trappers off. Red Shirt was there, Francisco, Skinny and Stout, Spark, seemingly most of the village, hundreds of men, women, and children. Partly, Sam supposed, they wanted to see how the trappers built a cane raft. With trappers working and calling to each other and Mojaves talking, everything was hubbub.
“Captain,” called Sam. Smith looked around. Whenever Sam addressed Diah in an official way, he called him by title. “Hannibal and me, we’ll swim over with the horses.”
“You?” Jedediah asked at large, “Who’s a strong swimmer?”
“Me!” said Hannibal and Virgin at once.
Tom Virgin was old, Sam guessed probably in his forties, but he was tough and strong. Sam liked him.
“Hannibal, Virgin, ride the river with the horses.”
“Captain, I’m sticking with Paladin.”
Smith looked at Sam and knew his segundo wouldn’t be denied. “All right, three of you. Sam, hang on to that horse.”
“Let’s go,” said Hannibal. All thirty-some-odd mounts, including Paladin and Ellie, were rope-corralled a hundred paces downstream.
“Hold on,” said Diah. He was looking across the river. “You feel sure of hitting that sand bar?”
“It’ll work,” said Sam.
The trappers would set out in the rafts and pole across. The current would bear them downstream. Remembering last year, Jedediah and Sam figured they would float about as much down the river to the bar as across it. They allowed a good margin for error.
Now the first raft was loaded—eight trappers plus the captain and half their gear.
Sam, Hannibal, and Virgin started downstream to run the horses into the river. Coy tagged along.
“Wait!” said Sam. He ran to the raft that was still on the bank and lashed the rifle his father had left him, The Celt, to the bundle of rifles there. Most of the men had wrapped their rifles in canvas and tied them to this second raft. This rifle was important to Sam. It was the only memento he had of his father, Lew Morgan.
“Me too,” Hannibal and Virgin said together. A man swimming the Colorado didn’t want something as heavy as a rifle in his hands. Hannibal roped both rifles in.
Off the three hurried down to the river.
“Push off!” cried Jedediah.
Coy barked once in the direction of the raft and scooted after Sam and Hannibal.
The trappers on the raft shoved hard against the bank with their long poles, and the raft surged into the river. The current grabbed them hard. The raft spun in a full circle, making some of the men fall down. Everyone laughed. A big wave lifted the raft, and it dropped down the back side with a belly-sucking lurch. Men made whoopsy noises.
At that moment all the Mojave men yelled fiercely and attacked the ten men left on the bank.
The first blows whisked through the air. Two men got pin-cushioned, others were wounded here and there.
Spears were hurled. Polly Labross went down with a shaft through his chest, blood gouting from his mouth onto his gray beard.
Warriors rushed in and struck with spears and knives.
Silas Gobel was slashed by at least two knives but roared, picked a man up, and threw him at the other treacherous warriors.
Mojaves ran into nearby brush and came out brandishing war clubs.
Several trappers got off shots with their pistols—the rifles were lashed to the beached raft—but the Mojaves swarmed on them.
Jedediah and eight other men watched in horror from the river. It was like seeing ants rush onto a dying mouse.
The current yanked them relentlessly downstream. “Pole, damn it!” yelled Jedediah. He set an example.
The trappers had been gaping at the attack. Now they stuck their poles deep into the water, found the bottom, and shoved.
Two men pushed upstream.
“We can’t go against the current,” shouted Jedediah. “Pole for the other side!”
They did, hard.
From a hundred paces downstream Sam, Hannibal, and Virgin, armed with only their pistols and butcher knives, sprinted back to their comrades. Coy ran ahead of them, growling and yowling. Sam saw Bos’n Brown fall, and two Mojaves pounced on him. Robiseau staggered out of the melee, his back sprouting arrows.
&nbs
p; Before they were halfway back, a score of armed Mojaves ran toward Sam, Hannibal, and Virgin.
Coy turned and dashed the other way.
Sam fired, and a man dropped.
Hannibal fired.
Suddenly everything was chaos.
A capricious wind whipped up a dust devil. Sand and smoke swirled around the trappers.
Warriors ran into the dark pall, screaming and swinging war clubs.
Virgin went down, his skull bloodied.
“Run!” yelled Hannibal.
Sam and Hannibal sprinted toward the horses, a dozen Mojaves after them.
Sam thought, I’m dead.
He ran like hell and caught Hannibal and got half a step on him. Coy fell in with them.
Suddenly, out of the brush downstream, the horses stampeded. Three or four Mojaves ran behind, driving them.
Salvation! thought Sam.
He put his fingers to his mouth and gave a loud, piercing whistle, rising low to high.
Hannibal did the same, looping from high to low and back twice.
Paladin and Ellie cut out of the herd and ran toward Sam and Hannibal.
Thank God! Sam’s mind screamed.
The herd followed Paladin and Ellie. “Hallelujah!” shouted Sam.
When Paladin got close, Sam grabbed her mane and swung up bareback. Hannibal did the same on Ellie.
Sam saw Virgin staggering toward the river alone, holding his bleeding head in both hands. Coy ran toward the old man, then pivoted and came fast after Sam.
An arrow caught Paladin. She fell, and Sam pitched over her head.
Hooves rat-a-tat-tatted all around him. Dust and horse manure flew everywhere. Coy poised himself and yipped furiously at the horses pounding by.
A sharp edge slashed Sam’s hip.
He whirled and swung his fist.
The Mojave jumped back, cocking his spear. It was Stout, who had the face of a snake.
Sam grabbed his butcher knife and thrust forward.
Stout slammed his spear into Sam’s wrist.
The butcher knife went flying.
Stout grinned in triumph.
Sam grabbed his empty pistol and threw it at Stout’s head.
Stout ducked and the pistol sailed by. Stout laughed.
Yes, you bastard, I’m disarmed.
Sam fingered his trick belt buckle. Coy barked furiously at Stout.
Sam smiled. “Right. Hey,” he told Stout out loud in English, “look what I’m doing.” He jerked at the buckle, and his breechcloth dropped.
Stout’s eyes darkened at the insult. He bounded forward. Coy launched himself at the warrior’s groin. Somehow Stout thrust the spear.
Sam spun.
The point nipped his ribs.
When Sam came full circle, he crowded inside the spear point. His belt buckle had turned into a steel blade in his hand, and he drove it into Stout’s belly.
He jerked it out, looked at the blood, picked up his breechcloth, and wiped the blade.
Stout sat down hard and loose.
Sam looked with satisfaction at his glassy eyes.
Coy gave a last bark and snipped at Stout’s face.
“Thanks, Gideon,” he said.
His friend had smithed him a dagger with a belt buckle as a handle. Sam slid the blade back into his belt, deep, fastened the buckle, and put his breechcloth back on.
He walked over and picked up his pistol. Since The Celt was lost, the pistol was essential. He looked around. The herd had run off toward the hills, and the Mojaves were chasing them. Thirty horses, he thought. A huge triumph for them.
Where was Hannibal? Sam didn’t know. If he could, Hannibal would have led the herd into the river. Where was Paladin? With the herd. Injured.
All right, no Mojave was close. A grove of cottonwoods marked the bank. Sam loped toward the water, Coy bounding alongside. He hit the top of the bank in stride and made a long, flat dive.
The river was a turmoil. Waves slapped him in the face. They rolled him over. Suck holes grabbed at his legs.
He flailed at the water with his arms, he kicked at it with his feet. He fought the goddamn water. He battered it. He punished it. The river laughed and tossed him up and caught him. It jerked him under and let him up.
Sam whacked at the river with arms and legs.
Long minutes later, minutes he couldn’t remember, a mewling woke him up. Coy, he realized. Consciousness picked at his brain.
A hand touched him. He opened his eyes. Hannibal. They were on the far bank.
“I’m checking your wounds.”
He prodded at the gash in Sam’s hip and the slice along his ribs.
“You’ll be fine.”
“Where’s Paladin?”
“Don’t know.”
“Where’s Ellie?”
“Dead. Let’s get up to the others.”
“Dead!”
Hannibal pulled Sam to his feet. “The ass cut Ellie’s throat. I cut his.”
They stumbled upstream, splashing in the shallows, feet sinking into the sand bars. Pictures invaded Sam’s mind, images of the handsome stallion lying on the sand, neck pumping out blood. Then he thought of Paladin and wondered how her hindquarter was. His blood prickled.
Around a couple of bends stood Captain Smith and eight other men. Diah was looking across the river with his field glass. The trappers looked at each other with the bright knowledge of mortality in their eyes.
Diah lowered his field glass. Sam could hardly hear his words. “They’re all dead.” Sam looked across the river. Hundreds of Mojaves milled around. From this distance he could make out no one in particular. He pictured Red Shirt’s face, Francisco’s face, Spark’s. What in hell…
“Why?” said Diah.
No one answered. These Indians were friendly last autumn. Why?
They looked at each other, mute and afraid.
Now the captain’s voice of command came back. “Let’s get out of here.”
Two
THOUGH THEY’D LOST half their equipment, without horses they couldn’t carry even what was left. They stared bitterly at the gear. The captain put their food in his own possible sack, fifteen pounds of dried meat—that was all they had to eat. Then he filled his sack with trade goods for Indians, beads, ribbon, cloth, and tobacco. He grabbed several traps. His possible sack got heavy.
He told the other men that they had to walk a dozen sleeps in blazing heat. Considering that, they should take whatever they wanted. “This was company property. Now it’s your property.”
Sam looked at Diah’s sack and considered. Eleven men, fifteen pounds of meat, twelve sleeps (if they were lucky), that didn’t add up. And there was no game out there.
Five men still had their rifles. Sam grabbed the single tomahawk and held it high. He knew how to throw one. My anger will make it a vicious weapon.
He barely paid attention to what the others picked up. Knives seemed to go first, then traps, then bridles, in hopes of getting horseflesh. Last, they picked up more items for the Indians. These men had learned a hard practicality about that.
When each man had the load he wanted to carry across the Mojave Desert, Jedediah said, “Scatter the rest across the sand. Tempt them.”
They did. The thought of savages boiling over this equipment fevered the brain of every man. There was no point in asking how soon they would be here.
“Drink your fill,” said Jedediah. “We have only one kettle to carry water with.”
The men flopped onto the sand and sucked up all the river they could. Coy did the same. Sam refused to think of what it meant, starting across the Mojave with no water casks and only one kettle.
They started walking west.
“They know where we’re headed,” said Jedediah. “We have to get to that first spring.”
The men chewed on that. They looked around at the barren country. Desert scrub, desert scrub, desert scrub, and no place to hide.
Fragments of ugly reality spun through their
heads. The screams of their dead friends. The flash of knife, the silhouette of arm-cocked spear. The mud made by blood in the dust. The thump of human bodies on the sand.
They tramped. They waded through grief. They looked slyly toward their own deaths, which lay ahead.
Only Coy kept his head perked up.
After a few minutes Hannibal said, “You know why older women are better in bed than young ones?”
Sam was stupefied.
Hannibal went on, “Ben Franklin wrote this. I’m going to quote it.”
“Hannibal!” complained Sam.
“Go ahead, Mage,” said two or three voices.
“‘In your amours you should prefer old women to young ones. This you call a paradox, and demand my reasons. They are these: One—because they have more knowledge of the world, and their minds are better stored with observations; their conversation is more improving, and more lastingly agreeable.’”
“Conversation,” someone mimicked.
“‘Two—because when women cease to be handsome, they study to be good. To maintain their Influence over man, they supply the diminution of beauty by an augmentation of utility. They learn to do a thousand services, small and great, and are the most tender and useful of friends when you are sick. Thus they continue amiable. And hence there is hardly such a thing to be found as an old woman who is not a good woman.’”
“I’ve knowed some wasn’t good,” said Isaac Galbraith. He was a Herculean man with a strong Maine accent.
“‘Three,’” Hannibal barged forward. “‘Because there is no hazard of children, which irregularly produced may be attended with much inconvenience.’”
“Sacre bleu,” said Toussaint Marechal, “can you no speak straight out?”
“‘Four,’” persisted Hannibal, “‘because through more experience they are more prudent and discreet in conducting an intrigue to prevent suspicion. The commerce with them is therefore safer with regard to your reputation, and regard to theirs; if the affair should happen to be known, considerate people might be inclined to excuse an old woman, who would kindly take care of a young man, form his manners by her good counsels, and prevent his ruining his health and fortune among mercenary prostitutes.’”
“Zis hivernant me,” said Joseph LaPoint, “I take whatever come.” Hivernant was Frenchy talk for an experienced wilderness hand. LaPoint was called Seph by everyone.
