"Hyar, pilgrim! What in Hob's name have ye got this done up like a sunshade fer?"
'Travis?" Richard blinked awake, shivering. Water had collected in the sagging blanket to drip with a maddening plop, plop on his back.
"Yankees don't know shit. I ever tell ye that? Who'n Hob's name ever told ye ter build a shelter like this?"
"Why . . . er. no one."
"Tis a wonder yer not dead of the consumption. Hyar, now. Put this on."
Richard took the coat, running cold ringers over the leather. "For me
"No, fer yer brother Jack. Reckon yer not worth spit to us dead, boy. Now, put that coat on, and run out an' fetch a stick. Aboot as tall as yer leg. Then I'll show ye how ter tie up a shelter so's the water slicks off n the back. By then, them lard eaters otta have that buck cut up."
Richard shrugged into the coat, gave Travis a rabbity look, and scrambled for the trees.
Travis crawled into the shelter, lifting the blanket to hear the water gushing down the backside. What drained off ran right into the hollow where Hamilton had laid his bedding.
Travis stared at the water-soaked blankets. "Ah, hell. I'd rather try teaching a preacher ter sin."
The fire didn't burn well. Most of its heat went into drying the wood before it had a chance to cook the skewered jackrabbit. The meat would be smoked rather than roasted.
Heals Like A Willow poked at the rabbit, then looked over at Packrat, huddled in his blanket. Rain leaked down through the limbs they'd laid tipi-fashion against the trunk of the big cottonwood tree that bore the storm's brunt.
She'd tied a blanket as a skirt around the leaning branches and it provided some protection from the rain, as well as helped to hold what heat there was. Water traced patterns on the gray-white bark that still clung to the wood. Drips fell on them, but not nearly so many as would have done without the primitive shelter. Some protection was better than none at all.
She picked up another wet stick, broke it, and pulled the fibrous bark away before setting it on the struggling flames.
"Tell me." She looked at Packrat, using signs to fill the gaps in her Pawnee words. "Giving me to this father you dislike. How does it help you?"
He watched her for a moment, eyes dark and resentful. Finally he told her: "Half Man shamed my mother. Got her drunk on the La-chi-kufs whiskey. He coupled with her without her permission, or the permission of her husband. Then, when she was with child, he would not claim me. I would be justified to kill him. No one would say that it was wrong, but no one would say it was right, either. Such a murder would bring suspicion and people would look at me, and wonder."
Packrat reached out, tested the rabbit, and sighed before leaning back. "There was a better way, a way to shame Half Man in a clever manner. A way with honor for myself in the eyes of the Pawnee. I would capture a woman, and give her to Half Man. A woman given for a woman taken. Then I would renounce him in council. To the people, such an action would show that I am a great man, worthy of respect. Not just a killer."
"But your father would get me. A slave."
"He is not my father. He is only the man who sired me. But that is the point. Such an action would shame Half Man. To repay perfidy with a gift is a greater insult than murder. When Half Man showed up, people would laugh at him, mock him. No one would invite Half Man to share his fire. He would be unwelcome."
He leaned forward, gesturing. "Pawnee are not like other people. We don't like trouble among us. People look up to a man who can solve his problems without creating trouble. A wrong must be righted, but in a way that brings honor and respect, not suspicion. Suspicion breeds trouble. No one would say, 'Packrat killed the man who made him/ "
Packrat leaned back. "I would gain a great deal of respect. A man who repays injustice in such a clever way would be listened to in councils. My mother's disgrace would be wiped out. All the shame she has borne would be heaped upon Half Man."
Willow crossed her arms, staring at the smoldering coals. "So you will give away my life for yours?''
"You are not a real person. Just some Snake woman from beyond the mountains."
"I see myself as a very real person. So did my—"
"What you see doesn't matter. You are not Pawnee. I am going to find Half Man, give you to him, and ride off. You've caused me more than enough trouble as it is. What should have been talked about for generations will only be mentioned in passing."
She arched an eyebrow. "From what you tell me, I have repaid you in a very Pawnee way."
"Tell me," he hissed, "do you lie with Snake men when you are bleeding? Is that why your people are so weak? Do you pollute your own men with woman's blood?"
Memories of the menstrual lodge in her head, she said, "Of course not."
"Just me, is that it?" He reached to his side, running his fingers over the handle of his war club.
"Do you take just any woman without her permission? Or, are you your father's son?"
He stiffened, face going hot. "You are not Pawnee! You are a slave! A slave is nothing more than a dog!"
Easy! The wrong word would incite him enough to kill her. "If a dog bit you, you'd kill it, wouldn't you?"
"Yes!"
"Then kill me now. That's what I'm trying to get you to do."
"And leave me polluted, without the means to repay Half Man for what he did?" Packrat sank back, fingers still on the war club. "You are indeed crafty, woman. You think you can goad me, make me do what I don't want to. No, the best way to settle this thing between us is for me to give you to Half Man. I will have to steal some horses, steal some things from the Osage, or the Kansa, to pay for a cleansing. For the rest of my life, however, I shall dream of you . . . and him, together, under the robes. And when I do, when I think of your cries, I shall smile. You can't work more of your weasel ways on me."
"So, we go to the La-chi-kut fort on the river. And then what?"
"I will give you to Half Man. That is all. Then I shall ride away and hope I can do what I must, despite having the Spirit World turn away from me."
She smiled inside. Yes, brood on the loss of your spirit helpers. The more dejected you become, the weaker you will be when my time comes.
Willow plucked the rabbit from the fire and twisted off a back leg. The stringy meat steamed in the damp air and filled her nostrils with its aroma. Packrat seemed oblivious, drowning in his bad luck.
She finished the back leg, and used a thumb to peel the heavy back muscles from the spine. She chewed thoughtfully, then asked, "How many days to the La-chi-kut fort?"
"Four, maybe five," he told her sullenly, then realized that she was eating. He leaned across the fire, ripped the rabbit out of her hand, and attacked the carcass like a starved dog.
Four days, maybe five. And in that time, I must find a way to escape. She placed another smoldering stick on the fire. Until the right moment came, she would continue to slowly grind away his self-confidence. You are not as smart as you think you are, Packrat.
A drop of water splattered into the hot coals with a hiss.
The military post now called Fort Atkinson had had plenty of names, and been located in two places. Travis had seen both. The first name had been Camp Missouri, located about a mile north of the present location on the Council Bluffs. The army changed the name to Cantonment Missouri and expanded the post, then, with their usual wilderness prescience, had watched their fledgling fort wash away in the spring flood. After the engineers had relocated to the top of the bluff, the place was known as Cantonment Council
Bluffs, and then, finally, Fort Atkinson, named after the commanding officer who was even now upriver pacifying the tribes for Dave Green's benefit.
Or so Travis sincerely hoped. Fort Atkinson, perched on its bluff, was little more than could be expected for the American military's most distant outpost beyond the frontier. The fort had been laid out in a square, the buildings constructed of log, rock, and clay plaster. From its location more than one hundred and fifty feet above the river, it domin
ated the Missouri, and theoretically could sink anything that tried to sneak contraband upstream without the proper licenses.
The latter theory had always remained a point of curious conversation at the trading posts and among the fur parties. No one had ever been shot at, least of all fur hunters paddling downriver in bateaux loaded with pelts. In fact, Travis had once watched the artillerymen shoot at the river, practicing with their sights, levels, and trajectory tables. Several seconds after the squat howitzer belched gray smoke and rolled back on its carriage, a satisfying white plume spouted in the river. How close it would have been to an offending boat had, of course, remained academic. No one gave the artillery much thought, or respect, particularly after their less than sterling performance shooting up the Ree village for Leavenworth. All the shot had been too high—and the Ari-kara had escaped.
Suffice it to say that military or not, the traders made a stop here. This was the last toehold of the United States in the wilderness. Letters could be sent from Atkinson, messages left, and news gathered. Here, too, final supplies could be had, for the most outrageous prices, from the military contractors who maintained their own trading establishments.
Travis slogged his way through the gravelly mud, his nose twitching at the septic smell of urine, garbage, night earth, manure, and rot. He carried his rifle over his shoulder, and a pack of deer hides on his back. Rounding the corner, he nodded at a vicious-looking Pawnee who squatted against the trading-post wall.
Travis kicked some of the mud off his feet, lifted the latch, and stepped into the smoky interior of the old Missouri Fur post. Tobacco, candle soot, and stale air added new insults to his nostrils.
The good Lord knows why it bothers me, he thought. I reckon this child's done spent more'n one winter a-smelling smells just like this. Taint never bothered me afore.
"Travis Hartman!"
Travis cocked his head as he looked across the barrels and bales. A muscular black man sat lounging at a table behind the factor's bench. Travis grinned and said, "Baptiste de Bourgmont! I reckoned ye'd be dead afore now. Most likely the Ree would'a lifted yer topknot."
"Figgered they'd a lifted yers," Baptiste replied, then he smiled. The Negro wore a long, fawn-colored leather jacket that dangled waves of carefully cut fringe. His canvas pants were tucked into tall moccasins dyed maroon and decorated with tin bells, beadwork, and silver conchos. The broad black belt snugged around his hips held knife, pistol, bullet pouch, and pipe bag.
Baptiste was tapping an empty tin cup on the table with the tip of a knife blade. The charcoal black of his skin contrasted with the bright white of his teeth. Like thick wool, his kinky black hair had been pulled back into a severe ponytail.
"What brings you to Atkinson, old coon?"
"Same's always." Travis stepped behind the counter and threaded past barrels and tins, leaned the Hawken rifle against the wall, and unslung the tightly rolled deer hides from his back. Baptiste stood, then wrapped his arms around Travis in a bear hug, pounding him on the back. "It shore is good to see you, coon!"
Travis pushed him back, slapped him on the back, and used a toe to snag out the bench opposite Baptiste's table. "Yer looking fit. Chopped off any heads of late?"
Baptiste shook his head as he sat down again. "Lord God, Travis. I forgit just how ugly you are. I reckon as I always had the idea that time would make yor face look more like a man's."
"I could take my knife, whittle a bit on yers. Ye'd be surprised how them squaws take ter a man with a face like mine. Figger I'm chockful of medicine."
Baptiste chuckled and studied his knife. "You'd make my face look like my back, eh? The last man to scar me lies dead in a grave in Louisiana." He glanced up. "But I think I'd have my hands full killing you."
"Didn't do so well last time ye tried down ter Natchez— but I reckon we'd make a scrape of her, all right." Travis wiped his nose. "What's news?"
"Not much. Everyone is waiting to hear what Atkinson and O'Fallon accomplish upriver. Otoes, Omaha, and Sioux been picking on each other. The usual. Prices fo' plews are going up. People wonder if Ashley has fallen off the face of the earth."
"That would be some, it would. That Ashley, he's a canny old beaver if ever there was one. Maybe craftier than Manuel Lisa."
Baptiste shrugged. "Yor with Pilcher again this season?"
"Nope. Just roaming. Seeing whar my stick floats. Come up from Saint Loowee. Travel's a mess. These rains played hell."
Baptiste's eyes narrowed. "Uh-huh."
"You hunting for the fort?"
"Among other things. Like so many, I wait to see if the army can open the river. It'll take a heap big show to undo the damage Leavenworth did to the trade."
"Atkinson ain't Leavenworth."
"The gov'ment sent a new agent upriver. Fella name of Peter Wilson. Gov'ment thinks it's going to try and make treaties with the Kansas, Pawnee, Oto, and Ioway."
"Won't hold. Never does."
"Nope. Reckon not." Baptiste cocked his head. "You're up to yor neck in something. I can sense it. . . like a wolf around a weak buffalo."
"This child don't know nothing. If'n I did, I reckon I'd be plumb fat and sassy, sitting in Saint Loowee in a big house, with a fat woman tending my needs."
Baptiste leaned forward. "You? Don't feed me no poor dogmeat and tell me she be fat buffler, Travis. Not after what you and me been through."
"Ye never was much a one fer fancy palaver."
"They beat it out of me when I's a slave."
Travis glanced around. "Whar's the factor?"
"Probably asleep." Baptiste looked around the packed storehouse. His eyes rested on a keg of beads. "They's little trade now. Most of the tribes are planting, or out fo' spring buffalo."
Travis kicked the roll of deer hides. "Thar's eleven green deer hides. Spring stuff with their hair slipping. Reckon that'd fetch me an outfit?"
"Such as?"
"Good pair of moccasins, set of good britches, a heavy shirt. Maybe a knife."
"I reckon. Yor particular about the moccasins? Want any tribe?"
"Got Crow?"
Baptiste studied him with half-closed eyes. "Mountain moccasins."
"They got ter have heavy soles. Made outta bull buffalo. Reckon yer figgering whar my stick floats."
"I think they gots a pair. Your size?"
"Smaller."
"A woman's?"
"Not that small. Let's say, wal, about the size of yer foot thar, maybe a tad smaller, but not much."
"Mountain moccasins, not fo' a woman but fo' a medium-size man. They got a pair in the storeroom. Good Crow work. And you expect such fo' green spring deer hides?"
"Reckon so." Travis grinned. "Maybe fer the time I kept the Sioux from lifting that curly black hair of yern."
Baptiste gave Travis a crooked smile. "Or fo' the days on the river, or the time in Louisiana when I hid in the tree. Or the time you got me that job. Or the time—"
"Reckon I'd be right obliged if'n ye didn't go a-palavering all about the fort with yer ideas, coon. Reckon maybe ye seed me, done some swapping, and old Travis Hartman just up and left."
"I reckon that might happen."
"Waugh!" Travis took Baptiste's hand and shook. He glanced around, and then added, "Reckon a boat'll arrive a couple of days from now. Dave Green's hauling supplies for Pilcher. Carrying them upriver. Pilcher's business, understand?"
Baptiste's interest visibly sharpened
"Now, I reckon this hyar's just atwixt the two of us. Don't need to be nothing said."
Baptiste fingered his chin, thinking. "I work fo' the Company. Not many people would ask me what yor asking."
Travis shrugged.
Baptiste grinned then. "But then, yor not just anybody."
"Thanks, friend. Reckon I'll owe ye one."
Baptiste shook his head. "No. You took a big chance fo' a runaway slave. They'd a hung this nigger. Fed my carcass to the dogs as a lesson to the others. If'n they caught us, they'd a hung you, too. Bapt
iste don't forgit,"
'That's some, it is." Travis chuckled. "Saw something in ye, I did. Figgered ye was worth the risk."
"Perhaps they gonna hang you this time if they catches you? And maybe Green?"
Travis studied the tip of his thumb as if he'd just found something fascinating there. "Wal, ye knows Davey and me. Just hauling a load upriver fer Pilcher. But ye wouldn't know whar a feller might hire a string of hosses, do ye? Say seven or eight? Maybe fer a week?"
Baptiste pursed his lips. "They'd be questions. But ..." His eyes narrowed. "No, wait. There's this Pawnee. Half Man. Last I seed, he was hanging around out front. He has hosses. No questions—but a passel of trouble."
"Half Man? Reckon I heard of him. Runs whiskey, hosses, and plews back and forth atwixt the Pawnee and the Omaha? Likes to play heap big man with the chiefs?"
"That's him. Now, let's say a man wanted to sneak whiskey past the army inspection. He'd help. And he'd kill you fust time you turned yor back on him."
Travis frowned, remembering the mean Pawnee leaning against the logs. "Thar's times a coon's got ter take a chain."
Baptiste reached out, powerful hand grasping Travis's shoulder. "Watch yor back, coon. If'n ye don't, yor gone beaver."
SIXTEEN
For in absolute freedom there was no reciprocal interaction either between an external world and consciousness, which is absorbed in the manifold existence, or sets itself determinate purposes and ideas, or between consciousness and an external objective world, be it a world of reality or thought. What that freedom encompassed was the world totally in the form of consciousness, as a universal will, and along with that, self-consciousness gathered out of all the dispersions and manifoldness of existence, or all the manifold ends and judgments of mind concentrated into the naked and simple self.
—Georg Friedrich Wilhelm Hegel, Phenomenology of Mind