As they rode up to a big lodge, she saw her first White men. She could only stare as Packrat jumped off his horse. He bent down to hobble her animal, ordering, "Stay where you are. Do not leave your horse, or the La-chi-kut will catch you. They do terrible things to women."
She waited until Packrat had stepped inside the log lodge, swallowed hard to nerve herself, and carefully slipped off her horse. The White men were watching, their weird pale eyes gleaming, but no one shouted a warning, or even took a step in her direction. She hadn't made three steps when Packrat emerged from the black doorway and came flying after her.
He bellowed in rage, leaping to tackle her and slam her into the ground. "I told you!"
"What do you expect?" she hissed back.
"Get up! Get up, or I will beat you."
Laughter made her look up. More White men had gathered at the door of the log lodge. Packrat noticed, and colored. He cuffed her hard on the side of the head, to regain some of his shattered honor.
Willow stood with reluctance, and allowed Packrat to lead her back to her horse.
"Where is Half Man?" she asked.
"Not here," Packrat growled angrily. "Gone. Working for a La-chi-kut. Now we have to find him."
Willow leapt, caught the mane of her horse, and kicked onto its back. She stared down into Packrat's burning eyes. Hatred sparkled there, fueled by frustration. He blamed his bad luck on her, on her polluting woman's blood.
"Whoa!" came a cry.
Willow turned her head to see a La-chi-kut step out of the opening of the log lodge. Her breath caught. He had hair the color of the sun on winter grass. And such eyes! Blue, like a clear sky. By Wolf, the stories were true! His skin was as pale as hide bleached with white clay. And, yes, hair grew on his face! A dog face, like the stories said.
Packrat turned, watching the La-chi-kut warily.
"Your woman?" the La-chi-kut asked in crude Pawnee.
"My captive," Packrat replied cautiously.
The La-chi-kut studied Willow with calculating eyes. "Snake?'' He repeated the word, "Snake?" Then he pointed at Willow, eyes inquiring. With his hands he made the sign of her people.
Willow jerked a curt nod. Her heart had begun to pound. A La-chi-kutNo telling what he might do to her. Even slavery among the Pawnee would be better.
"Make trade?" the La-chi-kut asked Packrat.
Packrat bit his lip, glanced nervously at Willow, and shook his head.
"A rifle," the La-chi-kut said.
Packrat shook his head.
"Two rifle."
Packrat’s face betrayed a man in pain. In desperation, he signed, "The woman is not for trade. It is finished.'' Resolutely, he stalked to his horse and vaulted nimbly onto the animal's back. He reined the horse around, and gathered up the lead rope for Willow's beast
Laughter broke out again as Willow's horse hopped, the hobbles forgotten in Packrafs hurry.
She'd never seen him so, the facial veins standing out as he slid down, soothed her mare, and worked the hobbles
The boots and jeers might have been cactus thorns the way they stung him.
This time, they left at a run, Willow clinging to her mount, wind whipping at her, tearing her blanket from her shoulders. So desperate was the pace that she couldn't reach back for it, but had to let it vanish in the grass behind them.
They bolted across the flats, and up through the trees, before Packrat slowed, shoulders slumped, head drooping. From the heights. Willow could see the mighty Missouri River loop around to the south to meet the line of trees marking the confluence of the Flat River, and the route that would take her back west to her people. To the north, the big Missouri wound its way into the distance, water like silver thread in the green land.
"Where is Half Man?" she asked, aware that any words might incite Packrat to violence.
"Somewhere. He said he would be back in four days, with whiskey to trade for guns, powder, and shot. He told them that then he would go back to the Pawnee. A rich man."
"I am sorry I ran. The La-chi-kuts frightened me."
Packrat glanced up, eyes smoldering. He sidestepped his horse close. Gripping the head of his war club, he cracked her on the side of the head with the handle.
She cried out in pain. Her mare shied at the sound and Willow's flinch.
"Next time, I use the head of the club, Weasel Woman. I won't kill you, but I will hurt you so badly that you will never be right again. Do you understand? I am tired of you! You are evil" Tears glistened in his eyes. "You have ruined me!"
You have ruined yourself, fool! But she only bowed her head, squinting at the sting of his blow. No, you only started it. I have driven you to this. Goaded you, driven poison barbs into your soul. Whatever kind of man you might have been, I have broken your Power, Packrat. You will never be able to trust yourself again. In the words of the Pawnee, you will always be pira-paru.
"This way. They said he had horses, probably to carry something for the La-chi-kut. We will cut for sign. Do not blind me with your magic. If you do, I will take you back. Give you to the La-chi-kut, and be happy to be rid of you."
Behind his tormented eyes she could see crazy violence brewing. She swallowed hard, aware that the time for threats was over. Like a man climbing rimrock, he hung by his fingers. Were she to make his grip the least bit slippery, he'd fall into the darkness that had grown in his soul, and she would suffer for it.
Late that afternoon, Packrat cried out in anticipation, "It is here! I know his sign. Look! Half Man walked here. And here you see where one La-chi-kut walked. And here, another, wearing new moccasins!"
She glanced at the tracks, interspersed with those of heavily loaded horses.
"Come!" Packrat cried. "I will succeed after all! And, who knows, perhaps I can take this whiskey. Wealth enough to pay for a complete cleansing by the Doctors!"
She fingered the bruise on the side of her head, and remained passive. If an opportunity was to present itself, it had better be quick. If Half Man surmised just what his son was doing to him, he might well kill her outright.
She cocked her head. What has changed? Two moons ago, 1 would just as soon have died. Deep within her soul, the will to live had been rekindled—or, perhaps, it had been smoldering all along.
SEVENTEEN
"I strip this human being, thus constituted, of all the supernatural gifts which he may have received, and of all the artificial faculties, which he could not have acquired but by slew deli I consider him, in a word, rich. He must have originated from the hands of nature; A man not so strong and less agile than others, but, upon the whole, the most advantageously organized of any: I see him sating his hunger under an oak tree, and his thirst at the first brook. I see him laying himself down to sleep at the foot of the same tree that afforded him his meal; and to all his wants, completely provided.
—Jean Jacques Rousseau, Discourse on the Origin and
Foundation of humanity Among Mankind
Richard studied the Pawnee. He didn't look like much. Skinny, dark-skinned, with a protruding belly, he wore greasy black skins, a filthy blanket, and shabby moccasins with little metal bells on the tops. The Pawnee's face might have been cast of weathered bronze, and looked just as unforgiving as the metal. Those eyes were black, and hard as river pebbles, the nose hooked over thin lips. Half Man looked at Richard and Travis with a natural arrogance, as if he deigned to glance upon inferiors. But when they paused for a rest, Richard caught the crafty look as he appraised the whiskey.
Now they walked, single-file, each leading a string of horses, the animals tail-hitched. The Pawnee went first, then Richard, and finally Travis bringing up the rear. Richard had noticed that neither Travis nor the Pawnee went anywhere without his rifle in hand. Each might have been hunting a tiger, so alert were they to each other's movements.
They had passed beyond the trees and now crossed lush meadows of bluestem and wildflowers of every color. In the drainages, stands of mixed oak and ash were leafed out in a brillian
t green that contrasted to the plum, hazel, and raspberry bushes.
A free wind tugged at the fringes on Richard's pants, playing with the wispy beard on his cheeks. After months of not shaving, he had come to resemble all the others. It wasn't a beard like the older engages', but it was good enough for the river.
Patchy white clouds scuttled across the sky, promising more showers. But how blue the sky was beyond them, how vast the distances. Down in the river bottom, a man didn't have this sense of eternity. Something deep inside him shivered at that. How easy it would be to get lost out there, naked to the eye of God.
"Ouch!" Richard hopped sideways, causing the horse he was leading to throw its head.
"Prickly pear," Travis noted from behind. "Told ye, Dick. Watch whar ye puts yer feet. Don't stop now. Walk on it fer a while. It'll sure larn ye where ter put yer feet."
Richard whirled around, glaring. "Damn you, Travis. You knew I'd be free by now. You and Green. You plotted this! Took away my chance! I ought to . . . to . . ."
The hunter stepped up to him, a hardening glint in his eyes. "Easy, hoss. Yer not up ter taking this coon. Not by a damn sight. Now, settle down—less'n I fetch ye up good."
Sudden fear, like a cool wind, blew through Richard's hot guts. He swallowed to still the runny feeling down inside.
"Glad ter see ye got sense, Dick." Travis nodded his head toward the Pawnee. "Reckon he'd be plumb happy ter see us take a go at each other. After I kilt ye, he'd only have me to worry about."
"Killed me?" Richard glanced uneasily at the Pawnee.
"Oh, reckon not. Yer not that dangerous. I'd just have to slap ye around a bit. A feller's good sense creeps right back inta his head when he's getting whacked around and the lights start a-popping behind his eyes."
Richard rubbed the back of his neck, turned, and started off again. The Pawnee was watching him. The Indian resumed his pace, rifle in his right hand, the lead rope for the horse in his left. Along with the rifle, the Pawnee carried a tomahawk and a knife.
"What about him?" Richard asked. "Why would he just kill us? I mean, he doesn't know us."
"What's to know? We got whiskey—he wants it."
"It's not rational, Travis. Look at him. A man raised in nature. How does he get tainted by the corruption of civilization? He's free! A free man doesn't kill others. It defies any philosophical dictum I've ever read."
"Philos'phy!" Travis snorted. "Ye thinks a man needs ter be civilized ter kill? Rot and hogwash!"
'That's not what Rousseau says. And I dare say. Travis, he's a great deal more thoroughly read than you are on the subject. In his Discourse on the Origin of Inequality he makes a point that primitive man—and I assume our Pawnee is exactly that—keeps his dissensions to a minimum. Without the chains of property, or belongings, to bind him, he needs not resort to violence. What need does he have to strike another, when he can avoid the first blow? An insult can be easily repaired in a primitive society. A man need not seek revenge."
Travis stopped, his head cocked, mouth open. "Of all the foolish . . . Tarnal Hell! These Injuns war with each other just ter keep in practice! Don't ye know how they counts coup? By striking an enemy. The more the better! If n ye wants ter start a war. just walk up and strike an Injun warrior. Afore ye can take yer next breath, he's a gonna lift yer hair, slit yer throat, and open yer belly so yer guts fall out fer the dogs to eat!"
"But that doesn't make sense. Rousseau—"
"Hang Roosoo with a rawhide rope!" Travis gestured his frustration by shaking his rifle. Then he glared—all the more terrible for the hideous scars. "Dick . . . Dick, listen. Please, now. I'm a-begging ye. That Pawnee up thar, he's a warrior, half-breed or no. They's proud people. Honor and coup mean everything to 'em. Now, ye can't go around judging them by the likes of yer Mister Roosoo, or by the Bible, or nothing else. Understand? If'n ye do, I reckon you'll be dead right quick."
Richard studied the Pawnee, trying to read the mind behind those obsidian eyes. 'That isn't rational!"
"Hell! 'Course it's rational, so long's ye looks at it through their eyes! Strength, pride, honor. Hyar's how ye deals with Injuns, Dick. Foller these rules, and God willing, ye might see next fall roll around with yer topknot on yer head. Show 'em respect. Respect is just that. Don't never be weak. Not when they can see. They value strength and bravery. Last, keep yer word, coon. Injuns is getting used to whites breaking their word, but if'n ye keeps yers, they won't fergit. Now, that means yer not ter be making promises ye cain't keep. Think on that. Right now the Sioux'll spit on a white as soon as look at him, after what Leavenworth did up ter the Ree villages. Reckon ye don't promise nothing lessen ye can back her to the hilt."
"But how is that rational?"
"Wal, how's it rational that a man can shoot another man fer fooling with his wife? That's ter say he didn't force her. Reckon if'n she says yes, and her lover says yes, they both want to be with each other. What right's the husband got to shoot 'em? Ain't no court'll convict a husband that shoots his wife, or her lover. Is that rational?"
"That fact is, it is indeed rational. The tranquillity of the hearth—"
"Horse crap! Rees, Kansa, Pawnee, lots of people let their wives sleep with lovers. So long as she's willing, and he's willing, thar ain't no upscuttle. They got rules, Dick. Just like we do. By their rules, if n ye acts with honor, shows respect, and ain't weak, yer a gonna do all right. But ye've got ter use yer noodle." Travis hawked and spit. "Hell, I git along a heap better with Injuns than I ever did with white men. And Injuns comes in all kinds."
"So, Rousseau is right? The savages are carefree in love, unlike civilized man, whose passions lead him to entanglements. Savages make love, then part. Satisfied to allow anyone to mate with whomever they choose?"
Travis screwed his ruined face into a disgusted look. "Wal, among the Rees, maybe. But I'll tell ye, child. Don't ye never go fooling around with a Cheyenne woman, lessen ye wants ter marry her! They's worse than white men. Drive yer pizzle inta one of their young women, and her folks is gonna kill ye dead. But most peoples out hyar, they figger a man laying with a woman is plumb natural."
A huge rabbit, bigger than any Richard had ever seen, broke cover and went bounding and sailing over the grass. "What's that?"
"Jackrabbit," Travis said.
"How come they don't get cactus thorns in their feet?" The burning spine still made Richard hobble, but after the altercation with Travis, he'd be damned if he'd stop to dig it out.
"They ain't got feet, exactly. Just gobs of hair between their toes. Turns the cactus, I guess."
"So these women lie with anyone they and their husbands agree on. What about the bastard children?"
"Bastards? Hell, that's another way I don't cotton ter white ways. A child's a child. Given the number that dies young, who's to say? Injuns generally welcome a kid— lessen it comes from another tribe. Take that Pawnee, yonder—Half Man. Half Pawnee, half Omaha. He slips back and forth atwixt and atween. Home in both places—trusted by none. Talk among the Pawnee is that his mother'd have been better off to leave him out in the winter, let him die since he was planted by an Omaha when Half Man's mother was a slave."
"Slave?"
Travis squinted at Half Man walking several paces ahead of them. The Pawnee seemed oblivious to them, as if he were just out for a morning walk. "Reckon so. Most tribes out hyar, they takes slaves right regular. Used to be the Comanche stole Pawnee to sell to the Spaniards down south. Then the Comanche'd steal Lipan and Jicarilla kids and women, and sell 'em to the Pawnee."
"Morally reprehensible."
"Perhaps, lad. But watch yer tongue. Specially when we get up among the Crow. They steal anyone they can get their hands on. Kids especially. They love 'em, and raise 'em up to be good Crows."
"It doesn't sound like any slavery I've ever heard of."
"Reckon not, but then, ye ain't seen what the Osage do to an Iowa woman when they capture her, neither."
Richard skipped wide of a patch of pric
kly pear hidden down in the tall grass. "Rousseau can't be this wrong. Travis, we're missing something important. These people, they've been corrupted. That's got to be the answer. Like Half Man, here. He's been around whites for too long. Picked up too many of our vices: liquor, slavery, the drive to possess objects. I need to see someone who hasn't lived around whites, hasn't been affected by the traders with their guns and whiskey."
Hartman grinned amusedly. "Ye do take all, Dick. Ain't no such folks. Tarnal Hell, I seen 'em, from yer Boston to the Blackfeet. Folks has different customs, Dick. But they's all the same down deep. Some's good, some's bad, according to their lights. That's all."
"It's not rational!" Richard threw up his hands in protest, and to the horse's unease. "Whoa, boy." With restrained gestures, Richard said, "The closer to a state of nature, the closer man is to a state of innocence. Neither good nor bad, but like your Pawnee—"
"They ain't my Pawnee."
"—without binding morals. Morals are the result of ensuing stages of civilization placing ever more restrictive concepts of good and evil upon people. These Blackfeet, they don't have any sense of evil, do they?"
Travis made a sour face. "Yankee, yer gonna be dead within the month. I can feel it in my bones. Why on God's green earth did I ever stick my neck out fer an idiot? Listen up, Doodle, the Blackfoot will kill ye dead just because yer white. We call 'em Bug's Boys. They use that term in Boston?"
"The Devil's boys."
"And rightly .so."
Richard tried to split his concentration between the argument and the patches of grassy prairie that gave way to groves of trees. But what was he supposed to see? With grass this tall, if Indians were crawling up on their bellies, they'd be invisible until the last minute.
Richard gave it up for a lost cause and said, "Then, well, name another people, even farther away."
"Wal, thar's the Snakes. Generally good folk, with the exception of old Left Hand, if'n he ain't gone under by now."
"Are they more innocent?"
"Naw, they damn near wiped out the Blackfoot a couple of generations back. Did such a damn good job of it, the Blackfoot ain't fergot. Them two tribes is in a fight ter the death. No treaties, no mercy. Just a fight till every last one's dead. And ye've got ter keep an eye on a Snake. He's a right smart trader, right up there with the Mandan. The story is that the Snakes used to trade with the Mandan before the Sioux, Cheyennes, and Arapaho cut the trade routes."