"You know, there's people downstream might want'ta drink that water."
"Reckon so . . . but then, what they don't know ain't a gonna hurt 'em none."
"Oh, God," Richard mumbled as hard hands picked him up. "Leave me be, please?"
"Shut up!" A voice hissed from the dark. "It's bad enough we gotta smell ye, let alone listen to ye whimpering like a sheep."
As his buttocks hit the cold black water Richard let loose with a squalling sound, then he was under, still grasped by strong hands, trying to hold what breath he had left.
His head broke the surface and he gasped before he was pushed under again. The cold ate into his limbs while his heart pounded. He came up, and was ducked yet again.
They held him down longer this time. The current gurgled and tugged at him. Darkness and cold, like leaching death, caressed his chilled skin with a lover's touch. His lungs began to labor, sucking at the bottom of his throat. In panic, he thrashed against their hold. Their iron grip held and they pulled him—wriggling—from the water like a gaffed fish.
They laughed as they dumped him on the deck. Richard coughed, spent and trembling, as water ran from his soaked clothing. He broke into sobs then, wishing for death, barely aware of the men as they walked away. He began to shiver as the night wind blew across his sodden body.
He heard himself start to mutter incoherently. Is that me? a distant part of his brain wondered. Dark forms moved in the night around him.
"Oh God. Why is this happening to me?"
The cold crept through his numb joints—a cold unlike anything he had ever experienced, teeth chattering, bones shaking. It intruded into his soul as water did the pages of a book.
What kind of nightmare was this? One from which he could not awaken, a terror to be lived, not dreamed.
Someone relieved himself over the side of the boat.
"Please," Richard called softly. "Help me."
"Waugh!" a gruff voice called. "Who be thar? That you, Doodle?"
"I'm c—cold." Richard gritted his teeth to stop them from chattering.
"Huh!" the gruff voice continued. Richard had heard him called Hartman. The man disappeared for a moment, then approached on silent moccasined feet. He dropped a blanket over Richard, peering down curiously in the darkness. "You're that Yankee Doodle I done contracted fer?"
"Help me.. .please! I've been kidnapped"
"Now, I reckon that be a matter of opinion. Yer a-headed upriver, lad. We bought yer contract from ol' Francois. Has your sign on it, they say. You just stay plumb put, pilgrim."
"You don't understand Dear God, I'm going to die, I just know I am. Can't you do anything?"
"Well, it don't seem right—"
"God, no! I've been kidnapped!"
"—just ter leave ye a-layin' on the open deck this a-way."
The man reached under Richard's shoulders and lifted him against the cargo box. "Hyar now, pilgrim. Ye just take a mite o' this hyar jug o' mine. Reckon it otta light a little fire in yer Yankee belly."
The cool jug was tilted to Richard's mouth. He could smell the stuff, almost pure alcohol. He drank, and sputtered on the harsh liquor.
"Thar ye be."
"Thank you. No one's been nice to me in days. I'm Richard Hamilton." He gasped at the warmth building in his stomach.
"I be Travis Hartman. My pleasure ter meet ye, Dick."
"What did you mean, a contract?"
"Reckon it's a paper what ye signed, a-sayin' ye'll go with us up ter trade with the Injuns upriver. I been havin' a time gittin' hands fer this hyar trip. Ain't got no permit from ol' redhair Clark. So ye see, lad, this's all from under the boards."
"Under the boards ... what's that mean?"
"Means we got ter sneak. Like rats under the floor. Means we ain't got no license fer trading. We're gonna have ter get past Fort Atkinson slicker'n fat on a Ree woman's rump. But I reckon we'll do 'er."
"What do you mean—upriver?"
"Why, up the Missouri, Dick." Hartman sounded annoyed. "We're gonna go trading with the Crow for plews, boy. Got this here boat packed clean full of foofaraw."
"And you bought me?"
"Wal, way I hear'd it, it was that or Francois and his crew of pirates was a gonna slit yer gullet and feed ye to the fishes." Travis laughed. "Reckon, come down to it, yer hair's worth passage."
"My hair?"
"Whar ye be from, boy, that they don't talk no English?"
"Boston. I came here on business. Francois—and his friends-—they robbed me and beat me up. They tortured me and . . . and you simply must set me free! Let me go to the authorities. Travis, cut me loose. Please, I need somebody to help me. I must get away from here."
"Nope," Travis stood up. "Can't go a-doin' that. Reckon I done told ye 'null as 'tis. Ol' Dave Green needs all the help he can get ler make her upriver. Yer in. Come low water or high. Best cling to it. boy. Like I done told ye, sure beats what Francois had in store far ye." Mailman fastened his callused fingers into Richard's shirt and pulled him into a sitting position. "Reckon ye otta be sleeping, Dick. Shore 'null, ye'll get a bellyful of boat work come sunup."
"Don't leave me, Travis."
"Best shut yer mouth now, boy. Git yerself some sleep." Mailman stood, a black silhouette against the night sky. He tilted the jug against his lips, and strolled down the juisse plank on cat silent feet.
Cuddled in the blanket, warmth fought the chill to a draw. The only sounds were the whisper of the breeze in the tires, the muted slap of waves against the hull, and the haunting cries of the night birds. Richard never fell the difference when he slipped from consciousness to sleep
Meals Like A Willow walked steadfastly across the Open plain, her moccasins crunching in the wet snow. The bright sun on the virgin snowfields forced her to squint to protect her eyes. The day before, she'd found shelter in the lee of a sandstone outcrop as a vicious spring storm blew through. While the wind howled, and the snow drilled, she'd slept, eaten, and recouped her strength.
She could see her destination to the north: the snow-bright slopes of the Powder River Mountains. The Dukurika, her people, were waiting there, Camped somewhere up in the foothills. They had always clone it so, hunting the south fating hillsides where sun and wind kept snow from the Winter range so beloved by deer, elk, and mountain sheep.
"It won't be long," she promised the distant mountains. "Mother, father, I'm coming home."
There, in the warm rock overhangs, and among the tawny lodges of her kin, she'd find solace. The smiles of her brother and cousins would blunt the keening ache of death. The jokes her people enjoyed would help patch die gaping emptiness within her.
She could see it, the crackling fire casting yellow light on weather-brown faces. Her father. High Wolf, his eyes crinkled, spreading his arms wide as he told the Winter Tales of Wolf and Coyote, and Pachti Goyo, the Bald One. Alder, her mother, would be smiling, her worn teeth like stubby pegs behind her brown lips. Willow could almost smell the cooking mountain sheep haunch roasting slowly over the coals of the cookfire, its aroma mingling with the scents of juniper and limber pine on the crisp night air.
"Soon," she told herself as she wound through the snow-crusted sagebrush, each with a tapered drift that stippled the land.
The dazzling morning was already warming in the wake of the storm. Spring was like that, bitterly cold one day, warm and sunny the next. Within a day, the broad basin she crossed would became a quagmire of sticky mud, pooling water, and rushing drainages.
lip in the mountains, rock and gravel on the slopes would make travel less treacherous. It might take days to find a camp of the Dukuriku. but find them she would. By the time the biscuit root, shooting star, and desert paisley sent forth new shoots, shed have begun the long process of healing herself.
Unbidden, her dead sou's voice gurgled in the back of her memory, and an image of his round face tried to form, right-jawed, Willow forced it away, focusing herself on the distant mountains and memories of youth spent among the
cool forests and sun -glazed meadows. Yes, it would be like that again.
Because of the sun's glare, Heals Like A Willow kept her eyes in a narrow squint. As a result, she didn't see the rider until too late. Perhaps it wouldn't have made any difference, out in the open as she was. He crested the ridge, nothing more than a black dot sky lined against the ceramic blue sky.
She slowed and watched. The man and two horses picked their way down the snow-humpy sage slope. Their tracks dimpled the pristine white. A heavy buffalo robe disguised his tribal identity, and the horses wore Spanish tack from far to the south.
All right, what do I do now? Willow wet her lips and lowered her pack from her shoulders, dropping it into the snow. Behind her, her tracks, winding through the snowy sage, were the only visible break across the basin. Ahead of her, still far away, the foothills of the Powder River Mountains mocked her, white and gleaming in the morning sun. No drainage, no prominence, nothing lay close enough to offer protection. Even if she could outrun him, the snow would allow him to track her.
You must face him, Willow. With your digging stick as your only weapon, you y d better just hope he's Dukurika or Ku'chendikani.
As the rider reached the flat, he trotted his horses forward. She could see him now, a young man, wearing moccasins. And yes, she knew that style of decoration. For the most part, Pawnee hunted around the forks of the Platte, preferring to raid south, into the Spanish lands and into the territory now held by the Yamparika, who many now called Comanche—distant cousins of the Ku 'chendikani.
A dryness settled in Willow's throat as she braced her feet and gripped the heavy chokecherry-wood digging stick. Each end was fire-hardened and sharpened.
He pulled up on his horse and studied her, head slightly cocked. As if he had all the time in the world, he glanced back along her trail, then toward the mountains ahead.
Willow swallowed hard and slowly tramped the snow flat, feeling with her feet to learn the footing. She tightened her grip on her digging stick, checking the balance. Everything would depend on the young Pawnee. If he rode close enough, tried to brain her with the war club hanging on his saddle, she had a chance. If he strung the bow hanging on his back and shot at her from long range, she could dodge and try to deflect the arrows. If he tried to ride her down, she could set her digging stick, leap out of the way at the last moment, and hope the horse hit it at the right angle to impale itself and throw the rider.
Long chances, Willow. He's going to kill you. And at that thought, she chuckled, then laughed out loud.
To her ears it sounded like he said, "Cheshay mowhat atshak ahat." But then, Willow didn't know the first thing about Pawnee talk.
'Tm laughing because it is a good time to die, you two-legged piece of filth. Do you hear? I'm not afraid. Come kill me! My husband and son will thank you. Come on, you pus-infected penis, come kill me!" But not without a fight, worm!
He grinned at the challenge in her voice and threw back his robe to expose his head. Like many Pawnee, he'd chosen to shave the sides of his head and leave a long roach that fell into a braid down his back. With careless ease, he pulled the bow over his shoulder and artfully strung it on the saddle.
He is too close! No dodging, no matter how violent, would save her.
She started forward, desperate to distinguish herself as a woman of the Dukurika with pride, attacking her enemy.
The Pawnee laughed, heeling his horse back. He continued to jabber at her in Pawnee, but with one hand he motioned for her to put her digging stick down.
Willow slowed, seeing that no matter how she charged, he'd circle and skip out of the way. When she glared into those bright eyes, death didn't lurk there. Instead, she saw wry amusement. Willow hesitated, then used her hands to sign the message: ''What do you want?"
He signed back, "You, woman. You are my captive. Come with me."
She gave him the "It is finished" sign, and gripped her digging stick. What would death be like? Would there be a horrible pain as his arrows sliced into her? The initial fear had receded with the realization that death brought relief from guilt, an end to the lonely grief. She'd be with her husband and her son soon, a warrior returned to her family.
The Pawnee shook his head, unhooked his war club, and slipped nimbly off the side of his horse. He continued talking to her in irritated tones the way he would to a fractious horse.
"So you think, corn eater." For good measure, Willow took a swipe with her digging stick, listening to it tear the air. "That's going to be your head, fool!"
He stopped no more than four paces in front of her, gesturing again for her to put her stick down.
"You think I'm as silly as a sage grouse?"
He didn't look more than a boy—barely old enough to be a man by anyone's figuring. But the eyes broke the illusion; they were wise in the ways of the world. In another time and place she would have considered him a handsome boy, tall, muscular, with fine features and a mouth made for laughter. His nose was broad and straight, his cheeks slanting to a strong jaw.
He gestured once again for her to put her digging stick down.
Willow shook her head, and saw him slowly nod. He muttered something under his breath and began to close, his war club held out before him.
The weapon had been crafted of some hardwood, bent slightly, with a knob on the end. Willow circled, holding her digging stick defensively. If he lunged, she could block the blow, and perhaps poke him in the face before she skipped out of the way.
Instead, he walked right up to her and swung the club in an arc. Willow easily blocked the blow, but the power of it threw her back and the resilient chokecherry wood stung her hands. Off balance, she jabbed at him. The Pawnee sidestepped, and whacked her on the elbow.
The impact didn't break her arm, but pain caused her to gasp as the nerves tingled and flashed. From the corner of her eye she barely saw the war club coming around—before lightning blasted through her vision and the ground swam slowly up to enfold her.
Men began to move about the boat before dawn. Someone stepped on Richard, then kicked him. "Level Mangeur du lard! Get up!"
Richard pulled himself back out of the way, huddling in his blanket as he stared at the burly boatmen who had swarmed aboard in the gray light. Where was Travis Hart-man? Wouldn't someone here help him?
"C'mon! Goddamn ye! Dawn's a-coming! Let's go, you lazy whelps!" a harsh voice snarled out in English. "We got wind to fill the sails! Let's not waste it, eh?"
Richard watched as men joked under their breath, poking fun at others who were obviously drunk. Two were brought aboard unconscious, feet dragging as they bobbed between the shoulders of companions who sang softly in French.
"Eh? Jules? They 'ave to pry you out of Rosette's arms, eh?"
"Pry him out of her arms? non! They pry something else out of Rosette!"
"You better have enjoyed it! There be no more soft woman for you until we reach the Rees!"
"And they might sell you a woman just to split your head in two as you go down to poke your pizzle into some greasy squaw!"
"Knowing you, Trudeau, not even threat of death will keep you from a woman. And as for the Rees, eh, they do things to a man not even a Saint Louis whore would consider!"
Richard winced. What kind of barbarians were these?
"Eh! Booshway! We are ready!" a man called.
"Any time, lads. Sooner we're gone, the better she'll be," an American shouted from the top of the cargo box.
"Cast off! Cast off, you curs!"
"Eh! Patroon! You are all mouth and gut! Do we 'ave to listen to you the whole way?"
"Sacre enfant du grace!
Men made clunking noises on the shore side, and Richard felt the Maria move off and away from the dark bank amid low curses and grunts. From where he lay, Richard could crane his neck and see the crewmen as they shoved long poles into the water. Like a lumbering monster, the keelboat swung out into the current.
"We've still got our breeze," the American called from ab
ove. "Reckon it's a sign! Henri, drop the sheet! Let's use her while we got her!"
Amidst more cursing and commands, the sail flapped down, lines being run out to the gunwales to stay the sheet. Someone struck up a nonsense song in French about fishing in springs, girls in wells, and hearts in guerdon, all punctuated by a "Ding-ding-a-dong" chorus.
Richard resettled his cramped body and sought to ease the chafing ropes that bound his wrists. This is going to be horrible. Escape — I've got to escape.
That was it, slip off the boat, make his way back downstream to Saint Louis, inform the authorities and . .. Well, no matter. Someone would advance him the necessary funds to buy passage back to Boston.
He pulled hard against the ropes, and gasped as the bonds burned his raw skin. Too tight. Even if he slipped over to the side, he'd plummet into the water like a dropped stone. And sink like one.
As the sun came up, Richard took stock of the keelboat. She was built of weathered oak planks bleached white by the sun and storm. Keelboats were not creations of great beauty. The big square cargo box filled the hull with limited fore and aft deck space. The passe avant was a narrow, cleated walkway that allowed passage from the bow to the stern along each side of the cargo box. A single mast rose from the keelboat's center. The patroon, or helmsman, stood atop the rear of the box and grasped a long tiller that controlled the rudder.
A big man with blond hair and a blunt face walked over to Richard and cut the bonds around his wrists. The pain of restored circulation made Richard gasp as he stared at his mottled and puffy hands.
"Mornin'." The big man grinned at him. "I’m Dave Green. I bought your contract from Francois."
"Mr. Green," Richard sighed. 'Thank God I've found you! I've been through a terrible ordeal. This Francis robbed me and tied me up. I have been victimized by the most horrible of crimes. I must get off this boat, make my way back to Saint Louis, and inform the authorities."
"Authorities, huh?" Green squinted out over the water. "Now, that's a matter of disagreement between us, boy. A contract is just that, a deal. You are Richard John Charles Hamilton, aren't you?"