The Morning River

  So, Richard, think of something else. He cleared his mind and turned his eyes back to Blackbird's grave. A river pirate. Red instead of white. You weren 't any different from my father. Maximize your investment, even if it took poisoning your competition. And what did that imply about the state of man in nature?

  I just haven't found it yet. I need to look a little further, beyond the influence of the traders.

  But that meant going farther upriver. Ever farther from Boston, and civilized society.

  Remember, I’m only stuck here until Travis is well. Then, I'm off for those pleasant streets. Pick a goal? Why, Boston, of course, and Laura, and the life we'll have together. That's it. My spirit quest.

  And when he returned, there would be no compromise with Phillip Hamilton. Some things, like shattered crystal goblets, could never be put back together again.

  "Got an answer fo' Willow?" Baptiste asked. "About God?"

  "Whose answer do you want? Hegel's? Anselm's? Augustine's? Voltaire's? How about Montaigne's observation that while men create gods by the dozen, they can't breathe life into a lowly worm?"

  "Want truth, Dik," Willow said simply.

  "Truth flies like a bird," Richard whispered, staring up at the windy point.

  "Like eagle," Willow said softly. "Or hummingbird who brings the thunder. Or Magic Owl. Truth flies high."

  Richard ignored her, lost in thought. What if he went beyond the reach of the traders and still found men willing to pay any price for goods?

  Blackbird, just how different were you from my father?

  And if men should all prove to be the same, no matter what their origins or circumstance?

  No, that thought was too grisly to entertain.

  Just make it home . . . to Boston, Richard. Nothing else matters.

  His fingers absently caressed the long silken hair on the fetish Travis had tied to his belt.

  Morning bathed the land with new light; mist drifted across the smooth river and through the trees lining the bank. Smoke hung in blue smudges over the fires as the men in the messes finished their corn and venison. Overhead, the heart-shaped cottonwood leaves hung silently, waiting for the dawn. Occasional coughs and the metallic clank of pots and tin cups accented the engages' low voices.

  Richard sipped at his steaming coffee as he sat on a weather-silvered cottonwood log. He glanced across the fire at Willow, then quickly averted his eyes. She and Laura were like night and day.

  Dreams of Willow had tortured him all night long, of her smile and the straightforward way she looked at him with those incredible eyes.

  That knowledge plagued him, as if he'd been somehow disloyal to Laura's faith in him. It's not that I'm in love with Willow, just fascinated. As a scholar. It's my business to investigate her thoughts, to learn about her and her ways.

  But Willow kept creeping into his thoughts in the most unscholarly ways. With the exception of Laura, he'd never bothered with women. They frightened him even more than they fascinated him. Those he'd met in Boston—gentle ladies, every last one—either stared right through him as if he weren't there, or they gave him a gushy, airy-eyed look of false worship. And in no instance had he carried on a conversation of importance with a woman. They just dithered on about the weather, or was the coffee prepared correctly? Always trite.

  And now Willow fills my imagination — an Indian woman, who barely speaks English, has never held a book, and carries a war club, bow, and arrows. Yet they'd conversed about God, and souls, and he'd barely touched the rind of her knowledge about life. And that slight touch had enthralled him.

  She's an illiterate savage! But what fed the glow that filled her eyes when she looked at him? He shook his head, biting his lip.

  His coffee was bitter, watery, laced with the now familiar taste of riverwater. Dear God, what he'd give to be in a coffee shop in Boston, tasting the rich brews—dark and steaming. The aroma filled the nose. He'd add a dollop of cream and fine Jamaica sugar. Just right. . . Someday.

  He glanced at Willow. What would she make of Boston? He could imagine her laughing, eyes shining as she raised a porcelain teacup to her lips. No, impossible! The vision burst like a ruptured bladder.

  His blankets were rolled and tied, ready to be packed.

  Across the fire from him, Willow was working the snarls out of her raven hair with a comb Travis had given her, the teeth sliding through that glossy wealth.

  Travis ducked out of Green's tent and walked through the camp to hunker down beside Richard. Through squinted eyes, the hunter watched Willow. "Purty, ain't she?"

  "Indeed she is," Richard admitted. To his embarrassment, Willow glanced at him from the corner of her eye. "And I think she's learning English much too quickly."

  "Do tell, coon?" she asked. "I reckon I don't know shit yet."

  Richard took a deep breath. "Willow, that's..." But, what? She was learning the speech of these frontiersmen, not the cultured language of the civilized East "I mean, well, there are different ways of speaking. Some are proper, and some aren't. Ladies don't say words like that."

  "Like what?"

  He colored. "Like. .. 'shit.' It isn't polite for a lady to use."

  She lifted the corner of her lip, then said, "White lady is no better than horse to White man. Willow is no trophy, Ritshard."

  Travis laughed, reached across, and took Richard's coffee. He sipped, swished the liquid around his mouth, and swallowed. "That's some, it is. Gonna philos'phy her to death?"

  Richard ignored him, concentrating on Willow. "Do you want to learn the proper way?"

  "Hell!" Travis growled, giving the tin cup back. "She ain't never a-going to no Boston. Leave the child be."

  "Proper?" Willow studied him thoughtfully, her long fingers caressing the comb.

  "Formal. Like the way I speak. You've been learning the way Travis and Baptiste talk, that's fine for here, on the river, but not for civilized places."

  Travis snorted disgust.

  "I learn," Willow told him, and gave Travis a challenging glance.

  "Good!" Richard cried. "We'll begin at once."

  "Reckon not, coon," Travis interrupted. "Daylight's a-wasting. Fetch up the hosses, Dick. I'm a-riding today. Old Baptiste, he done snuck off with his rifle a couple of hours afore daylight. Now that we're past the Omahas, we otta cut buffler sign."

  Richard looked the hunter up and down. "Do you really think you're fit?"

  "Hell! I been a-loafing on that damn boat." He pulled up his shirt to expose the wound. Scabs had fallen off to leave shiny red scars on Travis's white hide. "If'n that ain't healed, I'm a sorry pilgrim."

  Willow glanced at the wound, nodded, and rose to her feet. She walked off toward the river, long hair swaying. As she passed through the camp, the engages went silent. Heads turned; gleaming eyes followed her.

  Richard stiffened unaccountably.

  "Finally started ter notice, have ye?"

  "Notice what?"

  Travis lowered his voice. "Ye seen Trudeau?"

  Richard glanced around. "No. But then, I haven't been looking for him."

  "Uh-huh. Wal, I run up on his sorry carcass last night. Caught him slipping through the brush ahind Willow," Travis paused. "Thought fer a second that French varmint was a gonna try me."

  "Following Willow? Try you? I don't understand."

  Travis gave him a disgusted look. "Dick, why's a man foller a woman inta the brush? What's he after? Now, ye don't see a whole lot of wimmen fer these coons ter go a-bedding, do ye? Trudeau's gonna be a mite of trouble fer Willow. He's pulled his horns in fer now, but ye mind that coon close, hear?''

  Richard's gut tickled. "Is that why they've started looking at her that way?"

  "Reckon so, coon. Man gets ter missing woman flesh against his own. She's a heap of woman. Reckon they'll be trouble over her."

  "Trudeau?"

  "He's the ringleader. And he's got the glint in his eye. Heard tell he signed on because a feller from Kaskaskia was a-looking fer him. Som
ething about a daughter. Trudeau's supposed ter have lifted her skirts against her will."

  "You mean rape?"

  "I warn't thar, coon. Reckon in this country, a feller don't just up and point a finger. Ain't got no proof, Dick. 'Sides, we got a boat ter get upriver."

  "That justifies anything, doesn't it?" Richard threw out the last of his coffee, picked up his bedroll, and tramped to the boat. He tossed his gear onto the deck and headed through the tall grass for the horses.

  Lugging the Maria northward outweighed any morality these human beasts had. The time has come. I've got to run, escape. Find a way back to Saint Louis . . . and then to Boston. At least there he could find a decent cup of coffee. And conversation worthy of a man of letters. In Boston, Laura's mere presence would drive away plaguing thoughts about Willow.

  Travis slumped in the saddle as he rode into the clearing. Not much had changed since the last time he'd camped here. How many years ago had that been? Nigh to five, now. Old Manuel Lisa was still head of the Fur Company. That was back when ...

  He pulled his horse up and tightened his grip on his rifle. That little tickle of wrongness was playing with his guts. The wily Pawnee gelding he rode pricked its ears, attentive on a thicket of hazel across the clearing. Overhead, the Cottonwood and ash leaves rustled with the breeze.

  "What is it?" Richard asked from behind.

  "Hush!" Travis kneed his horse forward, half-raising his rifle. Nervous as a cat on a floating log, he eared the hammer on the Hawken back, the click loud in the still clearing. There, behind that thicket. "Come on out!"

  "I don't. . . who's there?" Richard asked from behind. The horses snorted and stamped, aware of the sudden tension.

  Travis raised his rifle, sighting toward the hazel, ready for a snap shot.

  Willow had ridden her horse off to one side, hurriedly stringing her bow and nocking an arrow.

  The evening sun slanted through the leaves to dapple the clearing. Off to the right, fifty yards away, high grass screened the Missouri's muddy bank.

  A man stood up behind the brush—a whip-thin Indian. His hair was worn loose except for a long braided scalp lock rising from the center of his head. Two wary black eyes stared out from a flat face with a straight nose. Despite the heat, he was dressed in tight skins that covered most of his body. Behind him, a woman half-crouched in the brush with a little boy at her side.

  "Omaha," Travis muttered to himself. Then, in a louder voice, he added, ''Banished, by God."

  "Banished?" Richard asked.

  "Yep. That's the only reason an Omaha buck would wear a full set of skins in this weather. And he's Omaha, all right. It's in the cut of his clothes and that scalp lock. Where his hair is parted, it's painted red. A mite faded, but red it is."

  The Omaha stepped out of the hazel and spread his hands wide. He walked forward, smiled, and waited nervously.

  Travis signed: "What do you want?"

  In return the Omaha signed: "We friends. Hungry. Make trade."

  "Trade for what?" Travis asked in signs.

  "Whiskey."

  "What's he saying?" Richard asked.

  "Wants ter trade." Travis squinted. "Keep yer eyes peeled, coon. He might be banished, but there could be oth-ers.

  In signs, Travis asked, "What would a banished man have to trade with?"

  The Omaha turned and called out. The woman walked forward, leaving the child partially hidden. No expression betrayed itself on her round face. A dirty stroud dress hung on her like an old tent. She'd parted her hair in the middle, two braids falling down her back.

  The Omaha glanced uneasily at Willow, and then asked in signs, "You have woman?"

  Travis nodded. "We have woman."

  The Omaha sagged, then signed. "I can only trade woman. I am poor. White men are powerful and rich. They will take pity on me."

  Willow exhaled her disgust. The faint calls of the engages could be heard as they pulled for the meadow and the night's camp.

  "Boat come?" the Omaha signed.

  "Yep. Boat come."

  "Have whiskey?" The Omaha's eyes lit with a crazy anticipation.

  "What's he want?" Richard asked again.

  "Wants to use his woman for trade."

  "He . . . what?" Richard sounded genuinely puzzled.

  "Wal, coon, yer about ter come face to face with that philos'phy of yern." Travis cut off any further questions with a slashing of his hand. Eyeing the Omaha, he signed: "You are banished for murder. Tell me the story."

  The Omaha's eyes dulled and reluctantly he began to make signs.

  Travis could barely make out Richard's shadow. The lad had done exactly as Travis had instructed: He hunkered in the darker shadows of the cottonwood trunks, a thick tree to his back so that no one could sneak up on him from behind.

  Travis cocked his head to listen: distant coyotes, leaves whispering with the breeze; crickets and night insects.

  "Dick? It's me, Travis." He started forward. "Seen anything?"

  Richard straightened, the Pawnee trade gun in his hand. ''Nothing here, Travis. Just horses farting and chomping grass.

  Travis checked the picket line, found it tight, and leaned against one of the cottonwoods. His eyes and ears probed the night. "Seems quiet."

  "Yes."

  "Yer sounding a tad sour, Dick."

  "You should have chased him away."

  "Uh-huh, and he'd be out in the dark somewhars with all kind of idears about our hosses. As it is, he's nigh ter stumbling drunk and fit ter fall flat on his face and snore the rest of the night away."

  "We're no better than he is. We're accomplices."

  Travis plucked a stem of grass and chewed the sweet end. "Immoral as all Hell, ain't we? Plumb gone ta Hob hisself with sin the likes of which ain't been seen since Sodom and Gomorrah. Wal, I'll tell ye, it ain't up ter Green and me ter tell the men they can't dally with no squaw. Not when she's been offered right fair."

  Richard snorted derisively. "It's pure prostitution! What kind of people are these Omaha?"

  "Folks like most other folks, only a sight more virtuous than a lot of 'em out hyar."

  "Virtuous? That... that beast is using his wife for a whore, Travis. That's hardly what I call moral rectitude!"

  Travis squatted next to the fuming Richard. "Tell me, why is it that you figger that every man otta be measured by yer plumb line and level? One book of laws fits 'em all? Hell, it don't matter, white, red, or black, every man's gotta live up ter Dick Hamilton's ten commandments of philos'phy, or by God, he ain't even dirt! Must make life pure hell, such a damn set of notions ter live up ter."

  "There are universal criteria of proper behavior, Mr. Hartman. Ethical rules by which men in society mutually govern their behavior. It's not just my beliefs that are—"

  "Wal, good. I'm glad ye thinks so. So do most other folks."

  "Evidently not the Omaha or they wouldn't—"

  "Damn right they would! Tarnal Hell, Dick, ye drives me ter the point of cutting my own throat so I don't gotta listen to yer jaw flap! Now, shut up, or I'll fetch ye one."

  "You don't have to get mad." Richard scowled into the night, both hands gripping the trade rifle.

  "Don't I? Yer more bullheaded than Adam's off ox! Since ye got all the answers already, tell me about the Omaha. Go on, do her."

  "Well, I..."

  "Uh-huh. I'm waiting."

  'Travis, I don't need to know about the Omaha to know that what he's doing—"

  "Is plumb wrong! Son of a bitch! Imagine that. Now, listen up, coon. Hyar's the way of it. Omaha is about the strictest Injuns out hyar, except maybe fer the Cheyenne. They got their ways, and most is plumb persnickety 'bout who flirts with who. They take pride in giving their word. A man don't lay with another man's wife. He don't steal from his people. They take friendship all the way to death ... a heap further than most white men I know. Ye wants ter talk morals, wal, Omaha have got 'em by the barrelful."

  "What about Blackbird?"

  "Wha
t about trim?"

  "He was a despot, a tyrant. He used poison to make himself rich/'

  "So'd King George. So'd Napoleon. Hell, he's a chief, and a black-hearted one ter boot. And that makes my point. Folks always got one or two bad apples in their barrel." Travis paused. "If n 1 was ye, I'd wonder what in hell this Omaha's doing out hyar when all the rest of his people are out hunting buffalo."

  "All right, what's he doing here

  "Banished for murder. That's why he's all dressed up in them hides. It's punishment. He's been cast out fer four years. Seems he got drunk and killed his father-in-law when the old boy caught him beating his wife."

  "And she went into exile with him?"

  "Hell, no, she divorced his sorry arse. No, this woman that's with him, she run away fer committing adultery. Her husband caught her with a feller and she took to the brush before they could beat her. The way the Omaha tells it, it ain't the first time, so her family was like to whup her good and she didn't want no part of it."

  "Good God." Richard cocked his head as a nighthawk's wings buzzed in the night.

  "Yep, wal, I figgered ye'd need the whole story to get in a foaming philosphy mood and start preaching Roosoo or something."

  "But how do people get to be like them?"

  "Oh, just 'cause they's people, I suspect. Why, I reckon thar be folks ye wouldn't be right proud of in Boston, neither." Travis stood, patting him on the shoulder. "Now, keep yer eyes skinned, Dick."

  "Who... who's he been trading her to?"

  "Trudeau mostly. Right after the boat tied off, he started swapping fer whiskey. I reckon Trudeau's promised his daily ration fer two months by now."

  "It just makes me sick," Richard said miserably. "A human being should be worth more."

  "Should be. But most ain't, son. And that's just the way the wind blows and the water flows."

  "I think we got trouble," Travis told Green as he ducked out of the evening shadows and through the hatch into the cargo box.

  They'd crossed the Niobrara earlier that day, and a freak wind from the south had allowed them to make fifteen miles up the twisting Missouri. Now, after having satisfied himself with the establishment of the camp, posted guard, and lined out the messes, Travis had the opportunity to talk with Dave Green.