"What did Immle and Jones do to make the Blackfeet so mad, Travis?"
"Nothing. Blackfoots is just poison, coon. That's all thar is to it. They done declared war on whites, and by God, they'll fight her out."
"Well, were Immel and Jones going up to fight them?"
"Tarnation, no! Child, ain't none of us interested in fighting. Wal, 'cept maybe fer some fools like the British. Ye cain't never trust a Britisher no more than a Blackfoot, or a Ree. No, it was like this. Manuel Lisa died of the fever down to Saint Loowee. Joshua Pilcher, he took over the Missouri Fur Company. He and Lisa had been palavering about setting up a post to trade with the Blackfoot. Figgered, just like yer a-doing, that with the right presents, and a peaceful delegation, they could open that country up. Hell, we didn't want no war with the Blackfoots! A feller cain't trade fer plews when he's being shot at. Rational, eh?"
"Maybe."
"Wal, Immel and Jones, they met up with one band of Blackfoot, and sure enough, had 'em a peace talk. It was later that them Blackfoot all got together with the others and decided to wipe out the whites. And they done her."
An eerie feeling of danger had drifted over Richard like a miasma. He gave the Pawnee's back an unsure look. Was he like the Blackfeet? "But why? Travis, I'm looking for the reason. War is not the natural human state. I can't believe that. They must have had a reason."
"Who knows? They's just devils. Maybe their spirits told 'em to. Maybe it's because we're friendly with the Snakes, and Blackfoot hate Snakes as much as they hate anybody. Dick, listen close now. Out hyar, a feller don't need a reason. These Injuns don't think the same as ye. Larn their rules, or they'll kill ye. Get that philos'phy mush outa yer head."
"It just doesn't make sense. Man is rational. Man must be rational. Otherwise, what's the difference between us and the animals?"
Travis scratched at the sweat running down his cheeks and into his beard. "Wal, now. That's the first smart question ye've asked all day. So far as old Travis Hartman's concerned, thar ain't a whole lot."
If nothing else could be said for him, Richard Hamilton had a quick and agile mind. "Coneflower," he said, pointing.
"Good. Yer a-larning."
White fluffy clouds drifted across the endless blue vault of sky. Richard had never seen such blue. The warm breeze skipped across the grass, moving it like waves on Boston Harbor. Butterflies flitted past in dots of spectacular color. Insects were chirring in the grass.
"Seems like the whole land is alive." He wiped his sweaty face. "But I'd sure like a drink."
"Spring up ahead." Travis said. "Pawnee's been making ferit."
"You know this country pretty well."
"Reckon so. Worked out of the Council Bluffs fer Lisa, then fer the Company."
The Pawnee started down into a brush-and-oak-filled draw where water had cut through the caprock. Deer trails led through the trees to a little brook.
"Water them hosses downstream, Dick. Reckon we'll let them drink, then us."
When the horses had watered and began grazing along the trickle of creek, Richard dropped to his knees to drink his fill of cool water. Oak boughs dappled the ground with shade, relief from the heat of the day.
Half Man sat a short distance away, crouched on his haunches, rifle across his lap. He watched Richard with expressionless black eyes.
Richard asked, "Do you speak any English?"
Half Man continued to stare at him for a moment, then spoke, the language incomprehensible. At the same time, those brown hands formed different patterns.
"He says he wants to trade." Travis tied his lead horse to a tree, and walked over to squat several paces from Half Man.
Richard shook his head. "I don't have anything to trade. I just want to ask questions."
Travis spoke slowly, haltingly, his hands tracing patterns in the air. When Half Man answered, Travis looked up and said, "He says he ain't got no reason to waste his time if n ye ain't gonna trade. Says he's got better things to do with his day than jabber with a La-chi-kut"
Richard chewed at his lip for a moment, then slapped at a mosquito. "Tell him I'll trade ideas."
"Ideas? Hell." But Travis spoke, gesturing with his hands the whole time.
Half Man narrowed his eyes as he looked at Richard. When he spoke, the tone ridiculed. Travis translated: ' 'Words are empty air. I want whiskey, tobacco, gunpowder, mirrors. You are poor, you are nothing."
"I'm not nothing," Richard said. "I'm a student of philosophy, of ideas. The things you speak of are meaningless. Truth, the nature of God, the way in which you perceive the world, those things are all that mean anything."
Travis glanced warily at Richard, then made the signs, adding the Pawnee words he knew.
The Pawnee spoke in mocking tones. Travis translated: "He wants to know if ye'll trade them fine moccasins. He says if ye gives him yer moccasins, he'll find a reason ter be bothered by yer questions. And, which God are ye interested in? Evening Star or Wakonda? First is Pawnee, second's Omaha."
"My moccasins?" Richard cried. "They're the only shoes I've got!"
Half Man made a hissing sound, barked a couple of words, and spit in emphasis.
"He says yer a fool, Dick. And I reckon we'd better call her quits, afore he gets riled."
"A fool? I've at least the decency to have an interest in his beliefs! What does he think? That men have only things—tobacco, whiskey—to tie them together? Damn him, he . . ."
Richard started as the Pawnee rose, expression turning to snarl. With the quickness of a striking cat, the Pawnee feinted at Richard, pivoted on his foot, and swung the butt of his rifle at Travis's head.
Travis ducked the whistling rifle, lost his balance, and fell against the Pawnee's knees. In that instant, Half Man dropped his rifle, whipped out his knife, and leapt on Travis, who blocked the slashing blade, growling like a wild animal. Half Man screamed like a panther.
Heart pounding, Richard backed away. The sudden fury of the attack stunned him. Terrified, his hands clutched spasmodically at nothingness.
On the leaf-matted ground, Travis and Half Man kicked and bit and gouged. Grunting now, straining against each other, their faces contorted. Travis got a knee into Half Man's belly and levered the Indian off.
Half Man landed on his side, but struck out with his blade. Travis rolled away, rising. Half Man knocked Travis off his feet. Before the hunter could recover, Half Man leapt. Travis shot his elbow forward, partially deflecting the vicious blade that sliced at his side. At the same time, he jabbed his other hand into Half Man's face, the fingers clawing the Indian's eyes.
Richard gasped for breath, slowly shaking his head. Travis howled with an unearthly fury that drowned Half Man's screams. The Pawnee jerked frantically at the hand clamped to his face, Travis's fingers digging ever deeper into his eyes.
At the same time, Travis jacked his knee into the Pawnee's crotch, again and again and again. Half Man's body jerked from the impact. In desperation, Half Man broke the hunter's grip, flinging himself backward. Cat-quick, Travis was on him, an insane moan breaking his scarred lips, gray-white hair flying. Travis tightened his hold on the knife hand, while his other caught the Pawnee's throat; they were face-to-face, panting, spitting in effort. Travis's strength slowly bent the knife arm until the blade hovered over Half Man. The Pawnee gave a last heave, letting the knife slip out of his fingers. At that moment, Travis butted the Pawnee with his head, battering the Indian's already bloody face.
Richard staggered forward as Travis grabbed a rock and hammered the Indian's head. The rock made a hollow thump like a stick on a melon.
"Travis, no! He's beaten!" Richard cried as he rushed forward. But again and again Travis slammed the rock home, using two hands.
When it was over, Travis rolled off the limp body and flopped on his back. He coughed, blinked at the sky, and closed his eyes.
Richard stood, numb. Blood welled in the ragged red holes where the Indian's eyes had been. The skull had been pounded to pulp from
which streams of red leaked. What had been a man was now nothing more than meat. A big black fly landed on the dead man's ruined face.
"Travis?" Richard whispered.
"Dick? Come hyar. I reckon ye'd better take a look." Travis pulled up his shirt, the slice in the crimson-stained leather clearly visible. Blood ran in a bright red sheet from the cut in Travis's side.
"Come on, coon," Travis called. "Ye gots ter look at it. Tell me how bad. Stings like unholy Hell."
Richard stumbled forward, dropping to his knees. So much blood! He'd never seen anything like it before. "It's ... Oh, my God, Travis!"
"Is there—is there guts hanging out, boy?"
"N ... No. I... I don't.. . well, see any."
Travis gasped, lying back. With shaking fingers, he prodded at the long wound.
Richard watched those fingers as they worked carefully through the blood.
"Shit!" Travis growled. "Might not be guts out, Dick, but she's sliced clean through the side." He swallowed hard. "All right, coon. Ye gots ter sew her up. Savvy? If'n ye don't, old Travis is gone under."
"Sew?" Richard mewed. This wasn't happening! "God, Travis ... I cantV
"Reckon so, coon. Needle and thread's in my possibles." Travis felt around. "Must a busted the strap. Find 'em, Dick."
Richard crawled over to the leather bag where it lay in the trampled grass. He grabbed it up with shaking hands. "Got it."
"Come on, then. Let's get her done quick."
"Travis, I. . . I. . ."
Travis ground his teeth and swallowed hard. "Wal, now, Dick. If n ye don't, who in hell do ye see around hyar to do her? The damn hosses?"
Richard closed his eyes, shaking. His soul went cold. "Can't we go to the fort?"
Travis propped himself on one elbow. "Dick . . . Richard. Look at me. That's it. Now, yer scairt plumb silly. But hyar's how it is, son. I got a slice in me side. It ain't a long one, or else my guts woulda spilled all over the ground whilst I's raising that red Pawnee son of a bitch. I checked the blood. Thar ain't no gut juice in it, so he didn't nick me boudins. If n ye can sew me up, I'll be all right. It's on me right side, Richard. I cain't sew it myself, not without stretching. It's up ter you. So, fer God's sake, stop shaking like a puppy and dig around in my possibles. Ye'll find a needle all wrapped up with strong thread. I'll talk ye through it."
"Travis, I don't—"
"Thar ain't no choice, Richard. It's gotta be done. If n ye cain't, step over thar, pick up my rifle, and shoot me through the head. I don't want ter die slow with my guts leaking out. It's up ter you, now. Yer gonna kill me, one way or the other, if n ye don't dig out that needle."
Richard opened the bag, finding a bullet mold, a couple of lead bars, pipe, tobacco, rolls of leather thongs, a pouch full of small springs and screws, gun flints, several glass bottles with waxed stoppers—and the needle with its winding of thread.
He looked up, meeting Travis's sober blue eyes. "Ye can do it, Dick. I got faith in ye."
Richard wanted to throw up, to run screaming from this horrible place. "My hands are shaking."
"So're mine," Travis said with a grin. "Wal, coon, we'll be plumb scairt together. Hell of a good scrape, warn't it? That old Half Man, he's some. Sure foxed me."
"You sound like you admire him." Richard closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. He flexed his muscles, burning up the energy that pumped through him. Exhaling, he bent down, unwrapping the thread from the needle.
Travis watched him levelly, taking his measure. Richard drew strength from that cool look.
"Yep. I figgered he's a gonna raise ye, Dick. Fs halfway to my feet when he took that swipe at me head. Cunning old coon. Crafty as a fox. Now, yer a gonna have ter tie a big knot in the end of that thread. That's it. Now, another. Cain't have that slipping through my hide."
Richard fumbled the knot, then got it right. The mending he'd been doing on his clothes might stand him in good stead now. But mending on a person?
"Now, Fm a gonna lay on my side. Just like this. Ye got ter take the tip of the needle and run it right through the skin, not getting so deep as ter take any gut with it. Ye follow?"
"I think so." Richard held his breath and bent over Travis's bloody side. He lowered the point of the needle. "God, Fm scared, Travis."
"I reckon ye don't need ter tell me that, Dick. It ain't fixing ter make a body feel particularly at ease."
The needle dimpled Travis's bloody skin.
The long trail was finally coming to an end. Packrat nodded with satisfaction as he studied the horse droppings. They were so close, the manure hadn't even crusted.
He glanced at Heals Like A Willow—saw the tension in her eyes. You know the end is near, don't you?
He raised his hands to the sun, saying, "I swear, before the sun sets on this day, I will be rid of this witch woman! One way ... or another.''
He glanced back to read how his words affected her. That mask had fallen into place again and she remained aloof, as coldly beautiful as ever.
Half Man was close. As soon as they found him, Packrat would be free of her. He could begin the long process of purification. The air would taste sweeter to his lungs. His muscles would work with greater energy. He could feel his wounded soul chafing to finally escape the darkness. He could cure his manhood, for not even in dreams had his penis stiffened since that horrible day when she'd polluted him.
And how will you ever trust yourself to lie with another woman? He drove the thought from his mind, looking back at Willow to say, "You'd like that, wouldn't you? To think you could make me afraid forever. Well, you've made a mistake, Weasel Woman."
She gave him the briefest hint of a smile—and that maddening, knowing look. The anger rose, barely controlled. She could see inside his soul, know what he was thinking. By the Morning Star, he had to finish this now.
He kicked his horse to a trot, dragging her along behind. He could lie with a woman again, couldn't he? And what if he tried? What if he had the chance, and his penis remained forever limp?
His skin went hot at the thought Among the Pawnee there were no secrets. They'd laugh at him behind his back. Some day, a woman would offer herself. Ill say no. Walk away.
And when it came time to marry? How long could he put it off? His mother would make an alliance. And when he moved into his wife's house, into her bed, what then?
The hatred festered.
He jerked around and called, "What if I just kill you?"
"I be with you forever," she told him with complete sincerity. "Inside your soul. You can only be free when I am."
He bit his lip, straightened, and longed for Half Man as he'd never done.
The tracks led down into a tree-filled drainage lined with brush. As his mount stepped down the trail, he could see other horses tethered to the trees along what looked like a small stream.
"Half Man! It is Packrat! I come to bring you a gift." His heart leapt. Here, at last, was freedom from the witch. He could begin healing now. The other problems could be solved one at a time.
"Half Man?" He cocked his head, reaching for his bow as a skinny La-chi-kut stepped out from among the trees. He looked pale, and very scared. He held no weapon.
Packrat glanced around. Several of the horses belonged to Half Man. Better yet, the tins they carried were whiskey tins.
All the wealth I will ever need to pay for a cleansing! He slipped his bow from his back, and drew an arrow. Where was Half Man and the other La-chi-kutl He could sense that something was wrong, felt a dark intuition that he'd arrived in the nick of time.
The skinny White man was talking in the gobbling White man tongue. He looked terrified. So, not a warrior? Maybe one of the men who made black marks on paper?
Packrat cocked his head. "Where is Half Man? Where is the other La-chi-kut?"
"We here. Hurt," a second voice called from the brush in badly inflected Pawnee. "Horse kick! Give help."
Packrat glanced around, looking for any sign of ambush. The skinny White
man swallowed hard. Warily, Packrat kneed his horse forward, bow ready. He could see the second La-chi-kut now. His shirt was bloody.
"Half Man?" Packrat asked.
"Gone fort," the wounded man croaked. "Give help."
Packrat counted the horses. Ten. Then he saw the bloody spot on the ground, the drag marks where a body had been hastily pulled into the brush.
Packrat drew his arrow, pointing it at the wounded La-chi-kut. "I think Half Man is dead."
The wounded man stared at him for a moment, eyes drained, then slowly nodded his head. That's when Packrat saw the scars. The sign of the bear. This man had fought the grizzly—and lived.
"Tell me," Packrat rasped, a melting sensation in his guts.
'Tried to kill us. He wanted whiskey." The Bear Man made a sign for truth. "I would not let him steal it. If you know Half Man, tell me if my words are false."
Packrat aimed for the soft spot just under the White man's ribs. Dead? Half Man dead? This White man will die, and then the skinny one. After all of Packrat's suffering to . . .
Willow laughed, her mockery tearing something in his soul. Gone! Every plan ruined, as ruined as his life would be!
He spun his horse, seeing the victory in her eyes. No, an arrow would be too good for her. He wanted to beat her, to hear and feel the impact of his club as he broke her skull. Lowering the bow, he snatched up his war club. Destroy her. Kill her! Strike her down as she has stricken you with her witchery.
As from a great distance, he heard himself shout: "You killed him! You witched him! You did this—you knew!"
In fury, he slashed downward with the war club, but she dodged enough to take a glancing blow on the back. The club, deflected, struck her mare on the kidneys. The horse bucked violently, throwing Heals Like A Willow from its back. She hit hard, bounced on her bottom, and blinked with dazed eyes.
Packrat leapt from his own shying mount. Kill her first, then the White men. She seemed stunned, unable to focus. He swung at her, hissing his rage. She barely managed to duck the blow, scrambling awkwardly backward across the shade-dappled grass.