And when he does, Willow? Fighting him would prove useless. He'd simply beat her until she couldn't resist. Better to save her strength, perhaps lull his suspicions. As young and inexperienced as he seemed, he might make a mistake, leave himself open. Men often lost their wits when it came to driving their we’an into a woman. And, after all, it wouldn't be the first time a man had pumped his seed into her. It will be unpleasant, girl — but nothing you can't endure.
And for that, she would have to prepare herself.
The wolf howled again, and Willow heard Packrat stir uneasily.
Despite the night's chill and rain, the morning proved warm and bright as Maria coasted slowly along the west bank of the river. Travis sat with his back to the mast, alternately dozing, honing his skinning knife, and checking his possibles: personal effects like tobacco, needle-and-thread, gun flints and spare springs, whetstone, and so on. He'd made many of these journeys upriver, usually as one of the sweating engages, never lying around like a lazy turtle on the cargo box, sunning himself. Behind him, Dave Green plied the long-poled rudder, and talked to Henri, the patroon who stood cross-armed, watching the current.
The patroon served as boat boss. Henri had been steering boats for over twenty years, and had a chest like a barrel. A thick mane of black hair hung down past his shoulders and matched his full beard. His fists looked capable of driving hardwood pegs through an oak post, and bristly black hair covered his forearms.
On the passe avant, someone cursed the poor Doodle. From where he sat, Travis could see Richard Hamilton's expression. Christ must have looked like that as he hauled the Cross up to Golgotha. The young man's mouth was set, cheeks sweaty and flushed, his eyes glazed. Hamilton staggered against the pole more than he pushed it. Stringy muscles shook as he struggled to keep up, a task made urgent since Trudeau, the burly engage behind, cuffed him for being slow and clumsy.
Green, having turned the boat over to Henri, walked up and settled himself on the planks beside Travis. He squinted up at the sun, pulled a twist of tobacco from his pocket, and cut off a chew. His cheeks worked as he softened the quid and got it to juicing.
"Good day fer taking leave," Travis noted.
"Yep. Nice weather for a change. I've heard two different sets of beliefs on that. One is that it's an omen for good, the other says that the better the weather, the shittier it's going to get on the trip."
"Reckon I'll settle fer the first one."
"Me, too." Green paused thoughtfully. "Well, no matter. We're off, and the Devil take the hindmost. I'll tell you, Travis, I never thought I'd see this day. Look at her... my own boat, my own goods. For years I dreamed about this."
"I 'member." Travis closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the mast so the sun could warm his eyelids. "Always reckoned ye were a mite teched, Dave. As I recollect, first time I heard ye spouting off about being a booshway was that time on the Knife River."
Green chuckled. "Yeah, I remember. You and me, lost, shivering under that blanket while the wind howled and blew the snow so hard you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. We didn't dare fall asleep—scared to death the snow would drift up, cover us, and we'd smother to death before we could freeze."
Travis smiled, the scars around his mouth going tight. "Yep. Ye talked all that long black night about being a booshway. Bigger than Manuel Lisa, as I recall."
"Funny how things can change a man's life. The dream was born that night out there in the snow." Green crossed his arms over his knees, watching the heads of the engages as they bobbed past the cargo box in the endless chore of poling the boat upstream. "But bigger than Lisa? Nope. He was the canny old lobo of the high Missouri, Lisa was. Travis, I'd just be happy with my share of the trade. Lisa wanted it all—and he'd have had it, but for dying too soon."
"Reckon we all worry about dying too soon. And in this country, 'tis high to probable that's how she'll happen. Too bad ye warn't fixed to head upriver the year after Lisa gone under."
Green shook his head. "Time wasn't right. I'd have lost everything a couple of years back when the Rees closed down the river. As it was, Ashley took that loss instead of me."
The bank sloped down to the river here. Periodically they passed an opening that had been cut in the trees where a couple of cows grazed a small field.
"I'll tell you, coon, it won't take too many more fights like that'un ter ruin this whole damned country fer white men fer good. Leavenworth taking troops up ter fight the Arikara jist made fools out of all of us. Not only did the Rees escape, but the Sioux reckon we're worse than old women when it comes ter a scrape."
"Leavenworth was a fool. He should have pressed his first attack on the big town. Everybody knows that, including Atkinson and O'Fallon. They're no fools." Green clenched a fist. "That's why the time is now. The army's up the Missouri. They've got four hundred and fifty soldiers on eight keelboats. That's the biggest expedition ever sent upriver. They'll take the fight out of the tribes. O'Fallon's got enough temper for five men, and Atkinson's all cat scratch and honor. And we're slipping right up in their wake."
"So long as they don't just run right over us."
"We'll know."
"Best hope so, coon."
Green lowered his voice. "Chances have to be taken, Travis. If I make this work, we'll all be set. Think of it! We'll build us an empire on the Yellowstone. Joshua Pilcher can have the headwaters of the Missouri clear up past the Three Forks. Let him take the rough off of the Blackfeet. They'll pretty near suck him dry, and Pilcher will keep their attention for a while. Meanwhile, we fort up and sink roots. First we build a post at the mouth of the Big Horn . . . maybe right there on top of Lisa's old post. The first season we establish trade with the Crows. Second season, we expand the post, build it permanent. Maybe out of stone. Third season, we start scouting up the Big Horn. I've always hankered to put a post up at the hot springs where the Big Horn runs out of the mountains."
'That's Snake country."
Green pulled at his beard. "That it is, Travis. First the Crow, then the Shoshoni. If I can corner the trade for both tribes, I'll die a wealthy man .. . and so will you."
"Me?"
Green reached over and slapped Travis on the leg. "You're my right arm, Travis. The only man I can trust. You know the mountains and the Indians. The men respect you. You've been over most of that country. Who knows it better?"
"Lots of coons. Colter, Glass, lots of 'em."
"Bete ane!" came an angry cry.
"Stop it! Leave me alone!"
Travis stood, stepping over to where the engages had piled up in a little knot to frown down at Richard Hamilton. The man from Boston hunched, quivering, while Boulette snorted and stomped.
"Hyar, now!" Travis snapped, glaring down.
Boulette looked up, hands gesturing Gallic disgust. "Why you have this man? He's worthless! Weak!"
"Dick! Git to work, now. We ain't got all year to git upriver."
"I can't. . . can't," the Yankee panted, trembling.
The other engages looked on, braced on their poles so the boat didn't slip against the current. Expressions ranged from humor to disgust.
"Reckon ye'd better, Dick."
Green stomped across the deck, a large horse pistol filling his fist. "What's the matter here?"
"Reckon young Hamilton hyar's about done in." Travis sucked thoughtfully at his lip as he studied the situation. The sunlight was glittering off the water; the trees on the near bank looked bronzed with the new buds ready to burst.
Green's jaw had set; the pistol was pointed at Hamilton's blanching face. "How much we pay for him? A penny, didn't you say, Travis?"
"Yep."
"Think I ought to just shoot him? Hell, it don't look like he's going to be worth the bother, not with us being held up because he can't work."
Richard's eyes widened and he grew oddly still as he stared into the black muzzle of the pistol.
Travis hawked and spat out beyond the gunwale. "Wal, Dave, if'n ye shoot him, thar'll b
e no doubt among the engages that we mean what we say." And indeed, it might forestall any further trouble upriver.
Green thumbed back the cock on the pistol, the click loud in the suddenly quiet air. Boulette and the others backed carefully away.
"Oh, my God," Hamilton whispered dryly, hands clutching the thick pole as he rose, the action as slow as the opening of a flower. "Damn you ... damn you!"
In that instant Travis saw something in those desperate brown eyes. Yes, there it was—angry defiance driven by an animal lust for survival. He'd seen it before, and it didn't match what he'd expected of this rabbit of a man.
"Hold on, Dave." Travis dropped to a knee, meeting Richard's smoldering glare. "Yer life's on the line, pilgrim. Reckon ye can pole till midday? Ye got the sand fer that?"
"I'll pole." Richard's muscles had begun to tremble again, and this time Travis could see that the tremor came from fatigue, for the defiance remained in those hard brown eyes.
"Stow yer pole, Dick. Flop down up forward and catch a rest." Travis turned a hard eye on the rest of the engages.
"Reckon the rest of ye can cover fer young Dick hyar. He ain't been on the river afore. I'm giving him five days to toughen up. After that, he's fair game—if n Dave don't shoot him first."
"How about me?" Trudeau called up from where he slouched on his pole. "Do I get five days?"
Travis grinned, knowing how it contorted his scarred face. "Reckon so, if n it suits you, Trudeau. But afore ye do, yer a gonna do five minutes with me. That's the word, boys. Any of ye want to try me? See if n yer man enough?"
Heads shook slowly.
"Let's git back to work, lads. We're making the mouth of the Missouri by nightfall."
At that Travis nodded to Green, who uncocked his pistol and stuffed it into his belt. They walked slowly back to the mast as the Maria began moving forward. Surly grumbles passed among the engages.
"You sure I shouldn't have just up and shot him?" Green asked.
"Hell, I don't know."
"Why did you stop me, then, Travis?"
"Something in his eyes, Dave. Wal, reckon I give him five days. Maybe I'm a sight tetched for thinking it, but either he's got grit in him, or he don't. Sometimes a man just needs a chance ter find out. Reckon little Richard, thar, why, he ain't never had that chance."
"He does now."
"Yep. Five days' worth."
Richard lay sprawled on the hard oak deck. Somewhere, during the hellish day's long hours, his brain had simply ceased to function beyond the routine of the pole and keeping his feet as he staggered along the passe avant. When his feet became too clumsy, he'd drag his pole from the water and stumble to one side. He'd even grown oblivious of the boatmen's contemptuous glares as they passed him.
Inevitably, the image of that black gaping pistol barrel would grow in the back of his mind, and he'd stare into that dark eternity until it filled his entire world. Then, Dave Green's implacable stare burned through the darkness like a death's head. Travis Hartman's twangy voice would say, "Yer life's on the line, pilgrim. . . Ye got the sand fer that?" and Richard would force his wobbling legs back to the line. Once again he would fit the pole to his throbbing shoulder and endure the pain and the engages' cruel jests.
Just at dusk they'd followed the curve of the bank into the mouth of the Missouri River, where it vomited mud-choked water, floating branches, debris, and brown, soapy-looking foam.
His ribs moved on the smooth wood with each desperate breath. Though the urge to sob tickled within him, exhaustion had robbed him of the energy even for that relief.
Boston. . . . Oh, to be home again. Images flickered through his cartwheeling fantasies: narrow streets, North Church, Faneuil Hall, and the Charles River Bridge spanning the sparkling waters. Laughter mixed with the lapping waves against the Maria's hull. This world, or that? Silver clinked against fine china as diners lifted forkfuls of steaming beef. Men conversed in genteel tones, while women in snowy dresses smiled and greeted each other. The salty odors of the damp air carried the aroma of baking bread, spices, and coffee. Faint whiffs of rich tobacco tantalized his nostrils.
Laura's face hovered before him. She reached out, her slim white fingers seeking to trace the lines of his face. Her blue eyes were so serious, as if doubting she'd ever see him again. Then she faded like mist.
"Laura?" his voice croaked.
Dear God, to be home again. Boston . . . beautiful Boston, where even the cobblestones gleamed in the spring rains . . .
"Dick?" Hartman's rough voice burst the image with the surety of a plow mule amid piled glasswares.
"My name is Richard," he insisted numbly. Hartman was kneeling down next to him. The faint traces of tobacco strengthened, and now new smells, of roast pork, potatoes, corn, and onions, made him open his eyes.
"Brung ye vittles, Dick."
"You speak like a heathen."
"Ye got no call ter take that voice with me, Dick. Reckon ye'd best eat up. Long day starts come sunup."
"Maybe I'll just let Green shoot me."
Travis seated himself beside Richard, putting the wooden bowl down before his nose. The tobacco smoke came from Hartman's pipe.
Richard groaned, every muscle knotted and painful. He couldn't stifle a gasp as he sat up.
"Reckon yer some sore."
"I feel like I've been pulled through a keyhole."
"Figgered that. Reckon once ye've eaten I got a cure for that."
Richard shot him a wary look, the rich smell of the food triggering an angry growl in his stomach. Richard lifted the spoon that had been stuck in the stew. The handle was bent, but it served its purpose as he blew to cool the first mouthful. In another life, he would have scowled at the bland flavor; in this one, he wolfed the contents of the bowl as if it were one of Sally's masterpieces.
Hartman watched him with thoughtful eyes, and Richard surreptitiously studied the ugly scars. Thin strips had been ripped from Hartman's left ear, across the cheek, the tears thickening until the nose had been nearly torn away. An ugly patch of wrinkled tissue hinted that much of the right side of Hartman's face had been shredded. What could ruin a man's face like that?
When Richard cleaned out the bottom of the bowl, Hart-man stood and extended a callused hand, saying, "C'mon, coon. I got an Injun cure fer ye."
Richard gritted his teeth as he was hauled to his feet. Every joint had gone stiff. "What cure? Beating me with clubs?"
"Wal, she's some better than that. But ye'll howl a mite afore the medicine works its way."
Twilight had fallen. The river looked glassy and silver before giving way to the dark forest on the north bank. Hart-man led the way onto the plank that crossed to the muddy shore. The camp was set back from the water in an open field. Several yellow fires flickered, and knots of men hunched around them, smoking, talking in low voices. Beyond them, the forest brooded, the treetops etching dark patterns against the still-luminous sky. The chill was settling, damp, and promising of the cold to come.
Richard stared uneasily at the forest. Why was it so eerie? Surely hidden menace prowled out there among the shadowed trees.
Hartman reached back, steadying Richard as he negotiated the bouncing plank. "Yer balance will come, lad. Reckon all them fancy Boston streets never taught ye no grace."
"Apparently you and I have vastly different concepts of grace."
At that, Hartman laughed, but they'd stepped onto the soggy ground. Evidently this camp was used often, for the grasses lay beaten flat. A wall tent had been pitched, and Green and Henri sat cross-legged on a blanket before it. The booshway was jabbing at the fire with a long stick while Henri talked softly, blocky hands fluttering in emphasis.
The engages watched curiously as Richard passed, some stopping in the act of unrolling blankets. The smell of coffee carried from steaming pots that hung over the smoky fires.
"They're all wondering about ye, Dick. Trying to figger if'n ye'll make her or not. Most is laying bets ye won't. Odds is that Green or
me will shoot yer lights out in another four days."
Richard darted nervous glances at the sober-eyed men as he made his way through the camp. A sheep would feel this unsettling shiver as he walked through a pack of wolves.
"Bets?"
"Got to do something on the river, lad."
"Betting on whether a man gets shot?"
"Wal, they'll fall ter monte, euchre, and stud afore long."
"I see."
They'd passed the fires and followed a faint track past a brushy stand of hazel that, from the odor, served as the latrine. Richard's muscles had warmed, and some of the stiffness had left his legs.
"Hyar we be."
Richard squinted in the gloom, seeing a firepit of red coals dotted with rocks. A low dome covered with blankets stood behind the fire; a triangular opening gaped blackly where one of the blankets was folded back.
"Shuck out of yer clothes, Dick."
"But I—"
"Tarnal Hell, child, jist do 'er." Travis was peeling out of his hunting shirt and then started to unlace his greasy pants.
Richard's heart began to pound. "You're not... I mean ..."
"Yer not a woman under them britches, is ye? Wal, if not, I ain't interested. Now, take what's left of them fancies off and skedaddle inside."
"What is this?"
"Injun cure. Sweat lodge, coon. Now skin that shirt and britches, or I'll whittle 'em off."
Richard's fingers shook as he fumbled the buttons and undressed. The night blew cool on his skin as he dropped and scuttled into the black interior of the low tent. Sore muscles protested. Inside, he huddled against the far wall, scratchy blankets against his back.
I'm going to be tortured, maybe raped. The man's an animal Animal? Wasn't it the use of that word that had brought him to this horror?
Hartman's bulk filled the doorway, a silhouette of muscle and long grizzled hair. The hunter carried a hot rock pinched by two smoking sticks. It glowed an evil red as it was laid in the center of the floor. Hartman scuttled back out, then returned with another, and yet another.
An Injun cure? The glowing stones seemed to stare at Richard with demonic eyes. Hartman returned yet again, and the flap settled in place to leave them in complete darkness.