He wondered how to conduct himself now, and feared he would offend these people. Would she smile? Pretend that nothing had happened? Want him beside her as they wended their way southward to the rendezvous of the Yanks? What was politeness among these Snake people after moments like this? Or didn’t it matter? There certainly were no secrets in a village without walls, and that was different from the way Englishmen lived. In England, a liaison would be discreet, and the lovers would say nothing or give nothing away, and everything would be closeted. But not among the Snakes. One could walk through a camp like this any dark evening and know most everything about everyone.
He washed himself in the icy river water, feeling the jolt of cold as he splashed himself. When he returned, the women were just stirring, though Perrault still snored on the hard earth. Far from being shy or demure, the three women grinned boldly, celebrating a good night, and chattered at him in a tongue he couldn’t fathom.
They fed him something that had shredded meat, berries, and fat in it. He wondered what it was and how he could make some; obviously it preserved well in its gut casing. It would be a good emergency food on the trail.
His Shoshone lover and her sister enjoyed themselves, glancing in his direction constantly, chattering among themselves about him, and laughing. He couldn’t imagine what they were saying, and hoped it wasn’t as graphic or coarse as the talk he had heard from his shipmates when they returned from shore leave. He fancied she was pretty: whatever she lacked in slenderness, she more than made up for with shining eyes. She was all aglow, as if all her feelings were sunny this fine June morning.
The sun leaped over the high eastern ridges, suddenly bathing the river bottoms in gold, but the village seemed to be in no hurry, and Skye fathomed that these people were rarely rushed. They would arrive at the rendezvous in their own good time and at their own speed. They were traversing a vast north-south valley hemmed by arid mountains with only a little scrub pine at their crests.
Last to arise, like some lord, was old Perrault. The breed stretched, made water, belched, and began joshing the women in his harsh tongue. Then at last he turned to Skye.
“She says you didn’t know nothing but now you do.” He wheezed cheerfully. “Haw.”
“Uh, what’s her name?”
“Her? It don’t translate. Call her Annie.” He addressed her in voluble Shoshone, and Skye caught only the name he was bestowing on her. “That other, she’ll be Mariel, eh?” He laughed bawdily. “Ah, ha, good times for Skye.”
“Mister Skye, sir.”
Perrault wheezed and headed for the pasture where his horses were being herded. Skye elected to follow and catch his own. They weren’t picketed, and he hoped he could slip hackamores over their heads and lead them back to camp.
He found the spotted horses easily enough, even amid the hundreds in the Shoshone herd, but he couldn’t even approach them. They threaded their way through the restless herd, nimbly staying well ahead of Skye, who grew hotter and angrier by the minute. After this he would tie one at his camp, or hobble them both, just as he always had.
There were several herders patrolling the horses now, and a handful of villagers catching horses. The Shoshones had no trouble with theirs. The women among them often walked right up to the packhorses, caught two at a time, and led them back to camp where they could be harnessed with those drags that Perrault called travois.
At last Perrault helped him, his eyes full of mirth and perhaps contempt. The old man had a way with animals. He walked straight up to Skye’s brown horse and hackamored the animal in an instant. Then he caught the other and handed both leads to Skye.
“Haw!” yelled Perrault. “You got no experience at nothing. Wimmin, horse, it’s all the same.”
Sullenly, Skye packed his outfit, loaded it, and waited.
Some time in the middle of the morning, the vanguard finally started south, while the rest followed when they could.
They rode while the heat built, rested a while, drifted onward under a cruel sun. But Skye saw some sort of order when he looked sharply. The young men, the well-armed warriors, rode the flanks and rear; the headmen rode at the front. Hunters and vedettes were continually riding out and vanishing ahead or to the sides. Skye realized that the village was always on guard, and its relaxed progress was deceptive.
He steered his pony close to Perrault, who rode near the rear, far behind his women, who were ahead in gossiping knots.
“You worked for Hudson’s Bay, monsieur?” Skye asked.
“Ah! Dem no good bastards! Last year we quit. Yanks pay eight times more for beaver. I quit for good, bones don’t like cold no more. Oh, Ogden, he mad plumb through, yellin’ at us and makin’ big threats like he near kill us. Say we owe HBC lots beaver. Damn! They cheat us, make us slaves so we go trade with the Yanks.”
“You’re not going back to Canada?”
“Non, non, l’hiver, too cold. My women, they take care of me. Molly, she be a widow, and dem girls, they need a good breed aroun’. I make a lodge for dem women, have me a good old age, eh?”
“I would think you’d want to go back to your own kind.”
“You Anglais, damn, you don’t know how it is. Dem Snakes, dey make you happy.”
“Why do they call themselves Snakes?”
Perrault cackled. “Dem dumb Creoles, dey don’t get it. The Shoshones use a wiggling finger—like dis—as their sign. It mean people dat live on curving river, like dis. But dem trappers, dey think it’s snakes, and so dey call Shoshones Snakes. Call da river Snake. Eh? Whee! Pretty funny. Big joke. Snake people laugh.”
“These people don’t dress up. The Nez Percés wear finer clothing. Why is that?”
“Dere’s another bad name. Dey don’t pierce noses. Dey proud people, mean bastards, like to make war, steal Snake ponies. Mostly dey hate Snakes and Snakes hate dem. Shoshones, dey buffler people. Nez Perces, dey mostly fish-eaters but dey hunt buffalo each fall. When it get cold, dey all go over the mountains and hunt buffler and fight dem Crows and Blackfeet.”
Skye absorbed all that and took his lessons seriously. Perrault was the key to understanding this country.
“What did we eat this morning?”
“Pemmican. Good trail food. Last damn near forever. Ground up chokecherries or bufflerberries, dried buffler meat, mix her up with fat and let it cool and put it in gut. Damn, she keeps you going. Dem women make it good. You like Annie, eh? Maybe you got her.”
“Got her?”
“Yeah, you, me, we make a lodge. You young; you trap a little, shoot buffler, and we got three wimmin for l’hiver, eh? You get tired of one, you take Mariel, eh?”
The idea startled Skye. “Ah, I’m heading east, Mr. Perrault.”
“Where da hell you come from? Some damn Anglais, dat all I know.”
Skye debated telling his story, and found no reason not to. Swiftly, he described a young life under duress, his escape, and progress into a new life.
“Damn. HBC come after you. Dey rule the roost. Dey catch you. You give dem the slip—dat pretty good. Dem roosters peck de eyes out.”
“They tried at Fort Nez Perces, but didn’t know what to do with me. McTavish was too Scotch to feed me.”
“Don’ go east. You crazy, Anglais? What you do dere?”
“I want to study. Get the education I’ve always wanted. Go into business.”
Perrault spat and said nothing. He kicked his ancient pony and pulled ahead of Skye, an unmistakable gesture.
Skye rode alone the rest of that golden June day wondering how he had earned Perrault’s contempt. Of course he would go east. And of course he would get into college—somehow. Work his way through. And of course he would win the life he had lost, and probably do better because of all his bitter experience. If he had learned one thing about this wilderness existence, it was the boredom that permeated everything. A life like this would stupefy him.
The cavalcade walked scarcely five miles that day, obviously in no hurry to go anywhere
, and then settled into another camp very like the last. The hunters rode in, some of them with deer slung over packhorses. Somehow the meat found its way into most of the pots, along with roots and bulbs the women had casually gathered en route. The hunters were responsible for provisioning the whole band and not just their own lodges.
Skye tried to relax but couldn’t. Why didn’t they hurry to the Yanks’ rendezvous? He needed to talk English, not with some ignorant old French-Iroquois breed, but people born to the tongue who could supply him with information. He knew almost nothing, and needed to know everything about going east.
His thoughts turned to Annie as dusk settled, and he waited for darkness with taut anticipation. Now that he knew what was in store, his craving was worse than ever. He didn’t wait for darkness; he couldn’t. In the gloomy afterlight and the hush of night, he crept to the nearer bedroll. But it was Mariel this time, and she burned with need equal to his, fierce and demanding, quite different from Annie and even more gifted in fanning his flames. She exhausted him. He had never known that sort of soft weariness.
Then he drifted to sleep, his thoughts probing this new wonder in his life. Sometime in the deeps, cries awakened him. Around him people sprang up. Men swiftly gathered their weapons and vanished into the gloom. Skye hadn’t the faintest idea what all that was about and waited for Perrault to tell him. But the weathered old trapper took his time, and meandered about for a while, whispering to dark figures Skye could barely make out.
The old Iroquois finally squatted beside Skye in the starlight.
“Dem damn Pieds Noirs,” he growled. “Dey got dem horse.”
Chapter 19
Skye knew something of war, even if it was marine war. He would fight. He fumbled in the starlight for some clothing and his bow and quiver. He could see little, but finally managed to pull on his britches. No one had built up the fires for fear of an arrow or shot. He needed his moccasins, and discovered them near his bedroll.
When at last he readied himself and headed for the pasture where the horses had grazed, he knew he was too late. In that darkness he could not distinguish one horse from another. He would not know until dawn whether his own horses had been stolen.
He stood guard over the remaining horses, along with old men. His effort to help had been futile and late. No moon shone, and he could barely see the bulks of the nervous animals or the other village warriors about him. He could not imagine how the Blackfeet could even see enough to take some horses, much less escape along some line of retreat. He heard no wailing, no sounds of grief, and supposed no Shoshone had been hurt.
Eventually the quarter moon rose, and then it was easier to keep an eye on the herd and watch for intruders. An hour or so into the chill new morning the weary Shoshone pursuers returned, driving numerous sweat-stained animals before them. Many of the horses had been recovered. The warriors triumphantly drove the stock through the village so their prowess at war could be observed and honored by all. Then they dismounted and walked stiffly to their lodges, their faces grave.
“Ho!” muttered the old man next to him.
The rising light soon told the story. The pursuers had recovered twenty-one horses; only a few had been lost. Skye hunted for his own and found the brown but not the lighter one. He grieved the loss, and a knot of bitterness toward the Blackfeet formed in his breast. He would remember this. He looked over his brown and concluded that it had been left in the herd; it showed no signs of heat or sweat or hard use.
Around him the Shoshones talked in their own tongue, harsh and angry sounds that didn’t need much translating. Skye hackamored and led his remaining horse to his campsite, and dourly began to load it. He would have to walk now, and carry his kit on the horse. Traveling to the rendezvous wasn’t going to be much fun. Still, he had walked most of the way here, so he could walk some more. And the horse would pack his gear. It wasn’t so bad.
And the nights … He eyed the two sisters, who grinned back at him, conspirators at taking turns. He needed to think about that. His shipmates would have boasted about it, but something in it troubled him. He didn’t know these women. This most intimate act had been with strangers who couldn’t speak his tongue. Something was missing.
He pulled his buckskin shirt over his head, found his topper and jammed it over his unruly hair, scratched at his luxurious beard, and thought he had failed his hosts this night. He knew nothing about the warfare of the savages and knew he had better learn fast. This was not the civilized world, with constables and sheriffs. He realized he had been lucky to come two or three hundred miles without being murdered or robbed. Whatever else this night and this loss of a valuable horse had accomplished, it taught him a hard lesson.
This morning the Shoshones were in a different mood. Those who brought the horses back were honored. They paraded through the village receiving their praise, which others were eager to offer. But even though Skye couldn’t understand a word, he could sense the change. No longer was this a romp toward the rendezvous, but a solemn procession, with grim-faced young men, bristling with weapons—bows, quivers, lances, clubs, hatchets, knives—flanking the women and children and elders.
Skye walked along with Perrault’s women, who were quiet this morning, but then old Perrault joined him, riding beside Skye as he walked ever southward.
“Ah, damn dem Pieds Noirs. Dey get eleven horse—dey get away. Dey get you horse, eh? You get another. Lots of horse. Go steal one. Dey get you horse, you go take another horse from dem. We gonna get even someday, soon as we trade for powder, fusil, lots balls. Den we steal fifty horse and kill a few of dem devils. Dey got lots of Nor’ West fusils, guns dey get from the Anglais. But we get rifles at rendezvous, eh? You come along, we go take ten horse for every one dey get.”
“Are they the worst tribe?”
“Oui, du nord. Dey strong, much bigger den Snakes. Dey pick on us, Crows, Flatheads, Assiniboine, Gros Ventres, all dem. You kill a Pied Noir and six more grow in his place.”
“The men are all painted up. What does that mean?”
“It means lots of things. Dem that paints is ready for war. Dey all got their private medicine, lightning, stars, like dat. Good paint, make ’em strong.”
“How do they make that bright red?”
“Dat’s vermilion. Dey get that from traders. The rest dey get from plants and rocks an’ mix wid grease.”
“If they come again, I’ll fight.”
“Ah, you get yourself kill. You get a good rifle at rendezvous—mountain gun like a Hawken—and den fight.”
Skye didn’t reply. In the right circumstances, he could do more with a belaying pin than a firearm. He couldn’t afford the mountain rifle, and anyway, he was bound for the east coast and the Yankees.
“How long to the rendezvous?”
Perrault shrugged. “Maybe a few days. Who know?” He eyed Skye. “How come you walking? Go put your stuff on my woman’s travois.”
“Travois? My stuff?”
“Won’t hurt nothing.”
Skye didn’t need a second invitation. He waited for the women to pull up. Perrault barked a command, and even before Skye could loosen his load, the women were pulling off Skye’s packsaddle and heaping his stuff on top of their folded lodgeskins. Skye watched long enough to see that his things were securely tied down, and then put his saddle on the brown, glad to ride again.
“Now mebbe you give old Perrault a few whiskey at the rendezvous, eh?”
“If I can,” Skye replied.
The days passed uneventfully, but Skye used every moment to learn what he could, often consulting with Perrault. He studied the buffalohide lodges and admired their utility. They could easily be erected in minutes, were light and portable, were designed to handle a fire within and contain its heat, and could be made comfortable any season of the year.
He had never seen a buffalo, and itched to see the awesome black herds Perrault told him about. At first Skye scoffed; there could not be so many buffalo. But when he considered
the number of hides in just one small eleven-pole lodge, he reconsidered. There were thousands of hides in this village.
He discovered that virtually every part of the buffalo could be put to use: its bones became tools, ladles, kitchen implements. Its hide could become a warm winter robe, and its meat could feed a lodge for many days. Its fat and meat mixed with berries could make pemmican, and the thick breast hide of the bulls could be turned into a war shield strong enough to deflect an arrow or spear or even a musket ball. He could make good moccasin soles from bullhide, and he could dry the sinew layered along the spinal cord into usable thread or a bowstring. He could stuff buffalo hair into a pillow or saddle pad, turn the scrotum into a rattle or a purse, or tan the soft hide of an unborn calf into a pouch.
He discovered that hunting these beasts was a great enterprise and sport, and that a fast and fearless pony, trained to draw close enough so its rider could drive an arrow into the heart-lung area just behind the front legs, was a prized possession and a source of wealth and food. He absorbed Perrault’s vast buffalo lore, and realized that these tribes could scarcely exist without the animal, which was why the buffalo was greatly honored among them. Not even the salmon was prized so much as the buffalo.
At first he studied the practical, lifesaving, and useful things he found among these people: he studied war clubs, flint arrowheads, the traders’ iron arrowheads, the way bows were made, and the wood used in them. He watched how the Shoshone made fires, what they used for tinder, and how they preserved a live coal long enough to start the next fire. He watched two women flesh a deer hide with scrapers made of bone and a bit of iron. He studied the roots and plants the women plucked and dug and used in their stews, the yamp and sego lily and camas, and the digging tools they used to wrench bulbs from stubborn soil.
Rendezvous Page 11
