The Morning River

  Dik made a face, then leaned down. Green was saying something Willow couldn't understand. Dik lifted a small metal tool from a wooden box. She watched with interest as he inserted his fingers in the little loops opposite the points.

  "What?" she asked, pointing.

  "Scissors," Dik muttered. Then he grunted uneasily and dropped to his knees.

  "Easy, hoss," Trawis said. "Snip, and then ye gots ter jerk." '

  Willow craned her neck to watch. Dik slipped the sharp tip under a puckered thread and the scissors clicked and cut it as cleanly as an obsidian flake.

  "Losing yer nerve?" Trawis asked.

  "Be quiet," Dik growled back. He said some other things Willow couldn't understand.

  When Dik finally finished, Trawis was blotting at little beads of blood where Dik had pulled the threads out. Dik wiped sweat from his forehead and took a deep breath. What a curious man, so fragile, but at the same time so incredibly strong. Of all the men she'd ever known, only her husband had ever engaged so much of her souls.

  Willow signed to Trawis. "Why is Dik so worried?"

  "He's never pulled strings out before." Then Trawis barked a laugh. Green slapped Trawis on the shoulder and ducked outside.

  Willow seated herself and inspected Trawis's scar before signing, "It will heal fine."

  Dik slumped, head down, hands on his knees. Willow took that opportunity to examine the scissors.

  "Careful," Trawis signed. "Sharp. Don't cut yourself."

  She plucked up one of the bloody stitches from the floor and experimentally snipped it in two. What a marvelous thing this was.

  She signed, "White men are very clever with things."

  "Clever any way you look at us," Trawis responded, talking in time to his signs.

  "People can be clever with things, but not with God or spirits." She snapped the scissors open and shut.

  "How so?" Dik asked after Trawis translated.

  "When do you talk to spirits? When do you take Tarn Apo into your heart?"

  "God must be examined by the mind, by thought." A strange gleam had come to Dik's eyes. "How do Shoshoni think of God?"

  She shook her head, signing and filling in the White words she knew. "This is too hard for us now. I must learn more talk to discuss this."

  What an odd idea, that Tarn Apo could be known by thoughts. Didn't these White men understand that Our Father could only be felt in the soul? Later. You must learn their tongue; then you will understand.

  She settled herself and studied Dik from the corner of her eye. Did he have a woman waiting for him? And if so, what was she like? To Trawis, she signed: "Where are the White women? Or are there only men?"

  Trawis chuckled. "White women are all back East. They do not come here."

  "Why don't they come?"

  Trawis pulled at his beard. "It wouldn't be right. Not out hyar. This country is too hard on them. Too dangerous. They couldn't stand the hardships."

  Willow glanced around at the snug tent—warm, light, and waterproof. Then she thought about the huge boat with all of its space and goods. Too hard on their women? These men traveled in unheard-of luxury! No packs to carry. No lodges to pack on a travois and then unpack. What sort of women were these?

  She said, "I do not understand."

  Trawis and Dik talked for a moment, then Trawis replied, "It would not be proper to have white women here. It ain't their place."

  "And what is their place?"

  Trawis glanced uneasily at Dik and the two of them muttered back and forth. Willow caught the word "lady" several times and asked, "What is iady'?"

  "A woman. No, I mean, well, special woman."

  "And what is her place?"

  "Uh ... in a house."

  "What is house?"

  "Wal... like a lodge."

  "Ah!" Willow nodded. "Lady's place is in lodge." But that didn't make any sense, either. By words and signs, she noted the tent. "This is lodge. Very fine lodge. Warm, dry, easy to move. Why is this not lady place?"

  "Aw, hell!" Trawis threw his hands up.

  Dik said, "Lady is gentle. To be ... to be prized. Very special. Do you understand?"

  "Who works?" Willow wondered. "Men?"

  "Yes, men." Dik nodded happily.

  "White women keep the lodge," Trawis signed. "Take care of children for men. Cook, clean, make clothing."

  "But not travel," Willow mused. "Why?"

  "Too dangerous," Trawis asserted. "Woman might get killed."

  Willow snorted irritation, fingers flying. "Indian women get killed all the time. That is part of life. Part of war, of bad luck—lightning, snow, starvation. Anything can kill. Why are White women not to be killed?"

  Trawis signed, "White men do not think white women should be killed by these things. White women are too precious.' '

  "A man protects a lady," Dik said solemnly. "Very precious. A lady is delicate. Understand? Like a flower, to be cherished."

  Willow's eyes narrowed. "You mean weak?"

  Trawis shot a wary glance at Dik, but signed, "It's not the same."

  Willow's lips twitched. "Is that why you come here? You seek strong women? Like horse breeders, you wish to strengthen your blood?"

  Trawis made a face, lowering his voice as he talked to Dik. Dik's expression betrayed mystification.

  "No," Trawis muttered. "I know." His hands made the signs, 44 White women are prized. Very special."

  Willow considered. Both men had begun to fidget. She asked: "Lady does what man tells, yes?"

  "Yes."

  She didn't have all the words, so she signed, "White woman is very special to White man. She is to be taken, then kept safe in the lodge to have children. Man works to take food to her, because man works and White woman doesn't. She is a prize, not to be risked. I understand this."

  Trawis translated, and Dik grinned.

  Willow continued. "I understand this because Ku-chendikani do the same. They treat special buffalo horses this way. They take food to them in the winter and always guard them. So, White men treat women like horses."

  Trawis's face fell

  Willow puzzled on the idea. What kind of woman would a White woman be? Like some helpless child? Who'd want a woman like that? Worse, what would it be like to be a woman like that? Locked in a lodge, fed by someone else, and doing nothing but bearing children?

  "No, no," Trawis was muttering. "White women are..."

  "Weak," Willow muttered.

  "No."

  "Like coup? Won from other men?"

  "Yes!" Dik cried.

  "Shut up, coon," Trawis muttered. "It ain't the same. Courting ain't winning."

  "Courting?" Willow asked.

  Trawis made the sign, and added, "We don't fight over our... Hell, that's a tarnal lie!"

  "Prize," Willow supplied. What was that other word? "Trophy?"

  Trawis stared at Dik. Neither looked happy.

  Willow clapped her hands. "You come here, find Indian women. Not prize. What is the word? 'Partner'?" She lifted an eyebrow.

  Trawis finally shrugged and grinned. "Reckon so."

  Willow gave them a sly smile and signed, "But where are you going to find an Indian woman who would want to lie with a man with such white skin? She'd shiver so hard at the idea of that ghost skin against hers that she'd clamp too tight to enter. And if she did, when she looked up at you—saw all that hair on your face, she'd think she was coupling with her dog!" And at that, she squealed with laughter.

  After Trawis translated, Dik's face turned a violent red and he slipped silently out into the night.

  Willow gazed thoughtfully at the swaying tent flap, then asked, "Dik have woman?"

  "Nope." Travis raised an eyebrow. "Ye interested?"

  "No," she said much too quickly. Travis nodded solicitously, but she could see the twinkle in his eye.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Savant man and civilized man differ so greatly in the depths of their hearts and in their inclinations, that what constitute
s the supreme happiness of the one would reduce the other to despair. The first longs for nothing more than repose and liberty; he desires only to live, and to he immune from labor; nay, the ataraxy of the most confirmed Stoic hills short of his deep indifference to even other object. Civilized man, on the other hand, is always in action, perpetually sweating and toiling, and racking his brains to discover occupations still more laborious: he continues a drudge to the last minute; nay, he courts death in order to live, or renounces life to obtain immortality

  —Jean Jacques Rousseau, Discourse on the Origin and Foundation of Inequality Among Mankind

  Richard, Baptiste, and Willow were driving the horses along the west bank. They followed dim trails through groves of ash, elm, and oak that gave way to grassy meadows. A hot wind blew from the prairie to the west and added to the bright sun's heat.

  Richard tried to concentrate on Laura, but he couldn't stop glancing at Willow, catching that speculative look in her brown eyes. In the sunlight her copper skin seemed to glow with a new radiance. In spite of himself, he kept smiling at her, almost wishing that Baptiste were somewhere else. But what would he say to her?

  She's a savage, Richard. Not your kind of woman. If you must think of a woman, think of Laura. He concentrated on Laura's blue eyes, her golden hair, and charming smile. Yes, that was it. Think about her thin waist, and the way her skirts rustled when ...

  "That tall bluff," Baptiste's voice intruded, "yonder, with the mound of dirt. That's the Blackbird's grave." Bap-tiste pointed, the long fringes hanging down from his arm.

  "The Blackbird?" Richard studied the high point Laura Templeton had vanished into nothingness.

  "Heap big Omaha chief. Some years back the Mahas controlled the river. And Blackbird controlled the Mahas. Nothing passed this part of the river 'thout old Blackbird's approval."

  The wind switched to gust down from the north, thrashing tree branches and bending grass in rippling waves. Willow tucked her hair back where the wind had pulled long strands loose. She gave Richard a shy smile, attentive to Baptiste's words and the hand signs he used as he spoke.

  The high bluff to the north dominated the skyline, piercing the tree-crowned heights. Beyond, the clouds raced southward in puffy mounds of white.

  Richard peered at Baptiste. "Tell me about this Blackbird." Anything to take his mind off Willow.

  "Traders give him arsenic, hoss. He was a canny one, old Blackbird was. Anybody challenged his power, sho' 'nuff, he'd slip poison into their food, then foretell their deaths. Got so that nobody among the Mahas would cross him. Smallpox finally kilt him. His last wish was to be buried up on that hill, a-sitting on his warhorse. The old coon said he wanted to be up thar high so he could see the white traders coming up the river."

  As he spoke, Baptiste's dark hands made signs for Willow. She stared up at the knob. "I heard of him," she said. "Strong chief."

  Richard ground his teeth, forcing his gaze away. The wind had pressed her dress against her like a second skin, outlining her perfect breasts and thin waist. Damn it, he was a gentleman, and a gentleman didn't look at a woman that way.

  "Reckon," Baptiste agreed. "Story is that once he had a trader brought up to the main village. Had all the trader's plunder—all his goods—brought in. Old Blackbird, he took half, called it a gift. Now, that trader figgered he was just about to go bust, when Blackbird up and says, ‘My friend, you may trade the rest to my people . . . fo' whatever price you wants.' That coon made his fortune, 'cause t'warnt a one of Blackbird's people would say no to the trader."

  "That's piracy!" Richard manfully fastened his gaze on the high point. "Blackbird. Now, there's a man my father would really like."

  Baptiste gave Richard a thoughtful inspection as the horses wound through the trees. "Travis done told this child a mite of that story. Yer pap, now, he done sent you out heah?"

  "Yes, he did. But for him I'd still be studying philosophy in Boston." Richard ducked a low branch. "He cut me off. From my studies, that is. I was supposed to deliver money to a booshway, to outfit a Santa Fe expedition. So, what happens? Francois steals the money. That French brigand is headed back to civilization to live rich all the rest of his life, and I'm on a fur expedition. What kind of justice is that?"

  "Beats being dead, Dick."

  "My name is Richard."

  "Rhitshard," Willow said softly, her soft brown eyes meeting his for one glorious moment.

  "Richard."

  "Ritshard."

  "Wilier, yor a quick one." Baptiste made a smacking sound with his lips. "Never knew an Injun to pick up talk as fast as she's a-doing." Baptiste gave the country another of his careful scrutinies. "Wal, Dick, I reckon yor pap figgered to make a man of you."

  "Maybe. Looks like he made me a slave, instead."

  "Boy." Baptiste's voice hardened. "You don't know shit. Yor no more than a damned planters boy. They's times you makes me want to puke with yor whining. A slave? Shit! You don' know the fust thing 'bout it."

  Richard returned hot glare for glare.

  Baptiste lifted a lip in disgust. "Do tell, what's this? You reckon you can kill me with a mean look like that? Care to back her up, coon? Want to try and whip it outa this sassy nigger?"

  For a second Richard held that gaze; then cold shivers wound through his guts. He dropped his eyes and reddened in humiliation. The worst was, he couldn't hold his own in Willow's presence.

  "Good. Last man what tried to whip me's a-laying dead in the grave."

  "Perhaps slavery was a bad analogy."

  "Reckon so, coon." Baptiste turned his gaze ahead. "If n yer keen to larn, I'll be happy to show you what a slave's life is all about."

  "I can guess."

  Baptiste's expression sharpened. "Do tell?"

  "Maybe I can't. Oh, I don't know. I don't seem to know much of anything anymore."

  For the first time that day, Baptiste smiled. "Wal, coon, I reckon that's when yor ready to larn. Cain't larn a damn thing when you knows all the answers already."

  "You sound like Travis now."

  "Yep." Baptiste resettled his rifle. "I come outa Louisiana ready to whip old Hob hisself. Fs mad, boy. Plumb clean killer mad. They done took my pap and sold him off ter Tennessee. Had me a woman. They wanted a strong buck like me to make young 'uns. So I had me a woman. Sold her off to Cuba after I run the fust time."

  Baptiste spit off the side of his horse. "Shit. Lost everything I had. Old friends wouldn't even talk to me. 'Fraid they'd be beat, too. So I's mad." He grinned. "Hell, even tried to slice up old Travis just afo' we made Memphis. That coon, he's some, he is. Took my knife away and boxed my ears till I couldn't stand up fo' the ringing. And, hell, I ftggered I knowed how to fight right fierce."

  "You tried to knife Travis?"

  "I done told you, Doodle. I's a rough nigger in them days. Had the fight on. Wal, old Travis he done taken it right outa me. That's when he set me down, all bunged up and bleeding, and we had us a parley. That coon talked sense inta me. Understand? He told me just what Ts doing, and why, and asked this child when I's gonna straighten out, 'cause he wasn't about to waste his time on no nigger bound ta get hisself hung fo' being a stupid ass!"

  Baptiste slapped his leg. "Hell, Dick. I didn't know shit neither."

  "What if they'd caught you?"

  "A murdering slave? And a runaway to boot?" Baptiste lifted an eyebrow. 'They'd a kilt me. Reckon Travis, too. It don't do fo' no white man to go ferrying 'scaped niggers north."

  "Why do you think he did it?"

  "No telling. Not with Travis Hartman. Says he saw something in my eyes that day I run inta his camp. Hell, he mighta done her fo' the hell of it. Why, catch that coon in the right mood, he'd spit in old Hob's right eye."

  "You like him, don't you?"

  "Reckon so. Now, he asked me ta larn you, so scrape the wax outa yor ears, Dick, 'cause old Baptiste's a gonna do just that." He held up a black finger. "Don't never go agin' yer pap. Don't matter what's ahind you, I reckon it can b
e patched. If'n not, I reckon I'll trade you, 'cause you got a pap and I don't."

  At Baptiste's cutthroat glare, Richard kept his peace. Willow was listening intently, struggling for the words.

  "I mean 'er, Dick. If'n ye lives, make peace with yer pap. Taint a small thing, having a pap. White folk think everybody's got one, just like a right hand. Black folk can tell y'all different."

  Richard chewed at his lip, remembering Phillip's hard face, the fleshy nose and pinched-on glasses. How can there be any reconciliation? We might as well live in different worlds.

  Richard asked, "What do you think my chances of living through this are?"

  "Depends, coon. How bad you want to live? If'n yor of a mind to go under, I figger you'll be maggot meat afore the Yellerstone."

  "Thanks for the confidence."

  Baptiste turned to Willow, ebony hands flying. For a long moment she studied Richard with those large dark eyes, then made signs in return.

  "What's all that?" Richard demanded.

  Baptiste sucked at his lips, dark eyes burning under the wide brim of his hat. "I asked her if n she thought you'd live. She says she thinks so. She says yor a medicine man, but you don't know it yet. She says that none of us knows yor Power. That such medicine is a gift not many people have. She says you carry the answer down inside. If n you wants to live, you'll do her, but the only one can call it up is you. She says she don't understand why the spirits would give such Power to a young white man."

  "Medicine? Power?" He let his gaze follow the smooth curve of her cheek, remembering the soaring sense when they'd looked into each other's eyes that day in camp. Was that what had touched his soul?

  Willow's fingers were moving again, dancing gracefully.

  Baptiste continued, "She says that you need to sweat, to purify yourself. That yor confused. Power's pulling you lots of different ways. To larn yor Power, you gotta be cleansed of the White man's confusion. Become pure, and seek yor vision."

  "Vision? My only vision is of Boston."

  At that, Willow laughed and said, "Ritshard not think his way to God." She tapped her chest "God hyar. Souls know Tarn Apo, not thoughts."

  Power? Spirits? It was nothing more than the superstitious nonsense of the savage mind. No matter how he might be attracted to Willow, that gulf between the savage and the civilized would always separate them.