That was it, wasn't it? He'd done what no man of the Dukurika would dare to do. And he'd done it without fear, without anything except curiosity.
And does that bother you, Heals Like A Willow? Is that what draws you to Ritshard? Is it because he didn't see you as a woman — or did he see you as a complete woman?
She shifted uneasily. The sounds from the Sioux camp grew louder.
"You're being an idiot," she told herself. "Tarn Apo alone knows who these White fools will find next. Maybe the next people will just kill them ... and you, too! You should run while you still can."
She nodded to herself. Yes, run. Now . . . tonight. Before anything else horrible happened to her.
Just as she'd made up her mind, the soft scuff of leather on wood reached her ear. Every muscle stiffened. Her soul pictured a wily Sioux creeping along the passe avant, intent on murder and theft.
A shadow darkened the doorway, but Willow had already lowered herself into a gap between two flour barrels. She clutched the war club in one hand, her knife in the other.
Step after careful step, the intruder eased down the stair slats. Cloth rasped ever so softly, and a big man slipped over to her bedding.
Willow's skin crawled. He reached out cautiously to finger her blankets.
One of the rats scampered away, and the man jerked, stifling a curse.
Couldn't he hear the pounding of her heart, the fear pumping in her blood?
He grabbed at her bed now, searching frantically, then whirled to peer around the black interior of the cargo box.
If he reached into her hiding place, she'd strike with all her strength. Thrust up from below with the knife so that he had little chance to block it. Then she'd rise, braced against the barrels, and hammer him with the war club.
"Willow?" he whispered softly.
She strangled the cry within, recognizing the French accent. Not a Sioux—an engage. Why?
Ritshard, Trawis, and Green were gone. Only Henri slept atop the cargo box.
Who? Trudeau, most likely, but it could have been any of the others. In the charcoal black, she couldn't be sure.
He stood in silence for what seemed an eternity, then carefully turned, easing back the way he'd come.
Only after the shadowy form ghosted back up through the doorway did she take a deep breath and wipe at the fear-sweat that had beaded on her upper lip.
The one-eyed Sioux continued to beckon with his crooked finger. In his other hand he clutched an eagle-feather fan as long as his withered arm. In desperation, Richard looked around for Travis, Baptiste, or Green, but only Wah-Menitu remained seated, his pipe resting on the ground before him. Now the chief's feral eyes narrowed as he studied Richard.
The beating of the drum, the eerie singing of the Sioux, and the tramping shuffle of feet filled the night, but the music had changed, turned ominous.
"Sit" Wah-Menitu pointed to a spot on a blanket in front of the old one-eyed demon.
Richard swallowed hard, and sank to his knees. His entire body was trembling from exertion and the sudden sense that something had gone very wrong.
"Who are you?" Wah-Menitu asked. "The wechasha-wakan wants to know."
Richard glanced at the one-eyed man, and fear chilled his guts. That single burning eye pinned him like a lance. "Richard. Richard Hamilton."
The old man spoke, his voice rising and falling, saying lots of wh and che and sh sounds. The gaping wound where his eye had been seemed to study Richard with a red-wealed, scar-tissue intensity that looked through Richard: saw all that he was, and was not.
Blessed God, where's Travis? The panic rose to pump as brightly as Richard's blood.
"He says he saw you," Wah-Menitu said. "He says that you came to him last night in a dream. You came as a cloud white dog, but when you looked at the wechashawakan, your eyes were those of a wolf, or maybe it was a coyote. Because of that, he has come to see you tonight. He wants to find out what you are."
Richard's throat had gone dry. "I. . . I'm Richard Hamilton. From Boston. That's all. I didn't have any choice when I came here. I was forced to. Honestly. I just haven't had a chance to escape yet."
Wah-Menitu drank some of his whiskey, then translated. The old man's eye gleamed, and he sucked his thin lips over peglike brown teeth. Richard's stomach turned as he realized that the dark patches in the eye socket weren't shadows, but crusted dirt lodged in the scar tissue.
The old man was talking again, his horn-dusky hands moving to form shapes and signs. Then he reached out and grasped Richard's hands in his. His skin was warm and dry, the grip powerful.
What should he do? Pull back? Shout for help? What was it Travis had said? Do as he was asked, or they might kill him?
The old man leaned forward and spat on the backs of Richard's hands. Richard flinched as the spittle cooled in the night air. Then the old man took his finger and rubbed the saliva on each hand around in circles. He closed his good eye, and bent down to inspect the damp spots with his gaping socket.
Richard fought the urge to vomit.
The old man straightened, opened his eye, and spoke again, his voice a low growl.
"He wants to know if your stomach hurts," Wah-Menitu translated.
"Yes."
One-Eye grinned evilly, and laughed before he chattered in Sioux. Wah-Menitu said: "He says the cannibal's stomach always hurts. It is hard to eat yer own kind."
"Cannibal? Eat my what?"
But the old man leaned so close that his single baleful eye filled the world. Richard couldn't break that sudden connection. From some corner of his mind, the words "eye of the soul" floated, then slipped away. One-Eye reached out with the eagle-wing fan. He used the tips of the feathers to trace the outline of Richard's head, chanting softly. Then he touched the feathers to Richard's forehead. A sensation like chilled mint extract flowed through Richard's head, and the world seemed to shimmer and fade.
What are you? The words came soundlessly. Richard shuddered as his insides went greasy with fear. You called to me, came floating through the sky as I spread my wings in the night.
"I did what?"
"You came here, looking, searching. What do you want?"
"To go home!"
The horrible gaping socket was so close now, he could sec the rippling folds of scar tissue, and what looked like eroded bone in the back. At the same time his soul stood naked, transparent as window glass.
Wowash’ake fills you, White Cloud dog, burning like a slow fire.
From a great distance, Wah-Menitu's voice told him, "He says you are wah e'yuzepe, confused. You have been fooled like Inktomi, the Spider Trickster, you have fooled yourself. Now, you must choose."
"What are my choices."
Paralyzed, Richard gazed into the depths of that terrible empty eve, seeing flames reflected there. Bui as lie watched, the flickers ol firelight began to dance and shift, spiraling, falling, ,metamorphosing into snowflakes. The cold stole through him, driven by winter winds. His bones might have become ice, snow crystallized in his lungs.
Wah Menitu’s drunken voice said, "The Wechashawakan says this is your future that you feel. This awaits you upriver. Snow, hunger, and cold a dog curls up and freezes under the snow He dies there without man to feed him.
"The wechashawakan says that four paths lie before you. You can take the red way, up the river. There, if you live, you will become a wolf or maybe a coyote. Or, you can take the black way, and go east. There, you will always be a white dog all hollow inside.
"What will you do, Washichun?"
Richard clutched himself, shivering in the reflected winter in the old man's eye. It seemed like an eternity before the old man backed away, and Richard gasped, breathless, the warmth of the summer night that seeped into his frozen body, He panted for breath, exhaling air cold enough that he swore it frosted in the air.
"And if I go home, to Boston I’ll be hollow inside? Forever?"
The old man grunted then, and ran weathered fingers over his eagle fan
. He spoke in a breathy voice, hesitating every now and then, nodding and gesturing with his hands. Then he stood, joints crackling, and walked off into the night.
"What did he say?" Richard asked. He rubbed his shaking hands on his leather pants.
Wah-Menitu made a face, as if the whiskey was bothering him. "He said he does not know if you will survive the snow on the red way. He does not see that far, so it is uncertain what will become of you. He only sees you starving in the snow, and no more. But truth lies there. An end to the confusion.
"If you take the black way, he said he saw you in a Washichun place where lodges are stacked on lodges and the streets are made of stones. He saw you there, lonely and sad—and your soul was empty, like a buffalo-gut bag with all the water drained out"
Richard shook his head, shivering from more than the chill in his bones. "But why did he spit on my hands?"
Wah-Menitu drank more of his whiskey and grinned foolishly. "When he spit, he tried to wash off your outside to see in. He wanted to know what kind of creature you were ... if you were human at all, or some kind of monster who had come to harm the people. If you were a monster, he would have to kill you before you could do harm. When he looked inside you, he saw the white cloud dog looking back, terribly afraid. If you do not remain a dog, you can become a coyote, or a wolf. That's why you came here. Not to bring trouble to the wechashawakan or our people, but to choose what you will be—and how you will live."
"That's crazy. I didn't come here at all. Not of my ..."
'The wechashawakan says you did." Wah-Menitu shrugged and belched, having trouble focusing his eyes. "Here. Drink this. White fool. I didn't want to waste whiskey on a man who might be dead soon." And he handed Richard the drinking horn.
Richard lifted it in shaking hands, drank deeply, and let the horrible stuff burn away the last of the bone-deep chill inside him. They're drunk, that's all.
But what had that terrible cold been? Where had it come from? The old man thought he was a white dog? And he was supposed to choose to become a coyote or a wolf? Richard shook his head. "Superstitious nonsense."
Wah-Menitu was watching him though half-lidded eyes, looking very drunk. "I think ye'll stay a dog, Washichun. White men are naturally dogs. They do not have the Power inside them. Inside here"—he thumped his chest with a fist—"to become wolf."
"I don't think I understand."
Wah-Menitu grinned, his mouth falling crookedly open. "I speak of Power, of looking inside yourself . . . and seeing through what ye are." He wiped at a dribble of saliva that escaped his lips. "And I think yer a coward, White Cloud Dog. Go home. Die empty." At that, he laughed uproariously.
Travis let out a whoop and came stumbling into sight, a young woman under each arm.
Willow jerked awake at the sound of booted feet on the steps that led down into the cargo box. Slivers of pain lanced her cramped back. She sat crouched in her hiding hole, propped by the rounded sides of rough oak barrels. Tarn Apo, when had she fallen asleep?
"Willow?" Henri called, squinting at the rumpled bedding on the blankets. "Morning is here. Willow?" He stepped forward to prod the empty blankets. "Sacre! Non! Les Sioux diaboliques!"
"Henri?" she called.
He whirled, a hand to his heart. A slow smile crossed his mustached lips. "Ah, mon papillon, you are safe. But what are you doing down there?"
Willow placed her war club atop one of the barrels and groaned as she pulled herself up. A gasp escaped her as blood ran into her numb legs. "A man came in the night." She indicated the narrow space. "He did not find me."
"Sioux?" Henri glanced warily about.
"Engage. " Prickles like a thousand nibbling ants coursed down her legs, and she made a face.
"Who?"
Willow shook her head. "I do not know. It was dark."
Henri growled under his breath, then sighed. 'This is not good, ma petite femme." He paused, an eyebrow rising. "And this happens when the Sioux are near... and the booshway is gone? I do not like this. Tres mal!"
Willow took a hesitant step, and had to lock her knee to keep from falling. Henri, breaking from his dark musing, reached out and offered his arm. The surprising slabs of muscle in the patroon's arm felt like a thick, gnarled root.
Together they climbed out into the gray of the false dawn. The engages were swarming around like bees. Normally, they lingered like lazy dogs over their coffee, waiting until the last moment to take up the cordelle.
As if he read her thoughts, Henri said, 'The Sioux have put a fire in their hearts, eh? Today, mon papillon, we will make many miles, prefer serment."
Having found her legs again, Willow made her way to the privacy on the other side of the boat to relieve herself. Below her, the restless waters roiled and stirred as if alive. A thin mist hung over the surface like a faint silver skein of spiderweb.
You must leave, Willow. Trouble is coming, and you are bringing it upon yourself. She stood at the sound of feet on the deck. The engages were filing onto Maria and pulling their poles from the top of the cargo box. She could hear the cordelle buzzing as it was pulled over the bow to the cordeliers.
This day, too, she would ride inside the cargo box lest some Sioux see her. She nodded to Henri, who had taken his place at the steering oar on the cargo box. Then, reluctantly, she climbed down into the musty darkness.
Only for today, she insisted. But how many more hostile tribes lay ahead? Did they expect her, a Dukurika, to ride the whole way inside this black box like a rabbit in a sack?
She ran her fingers over the line of rifles in the rack by the door. The wood was so smooth, the iron cool and remote to the touch. They had a menacing power all their own. Not the warm familiarity of a bow and good arrows, but a darker presence that might be understood only through time and familiarity.
There is nothing for me here. She straightened, the decision made. She would leave, but not in a panic, like Coyote fulfilling some whim of the moment. No, instead, she would go like Wolf in his wisdom. From this day onward, she would prepare for the long journey home.
Henri barked out orders. She settled herself on the blankets and stretched her back to release the kinks from her cramped sleep. She would need food, extra moccasins, a good pack, netting, a stout thong for a snare, new arrows.
As she planned, she couldn't shake the memory of the shadowy hand reaching out of the darkness for her bedding.
Travis waved a final farewell as Wah-Menitu's warriors lifted lances and rifles. The Sioux wheeled their mounts with mechanical precision and raced away across the plains, southward, toward their village.
Travis ran a hand over his face and groaned aloud. The bright sunlight and warmth of the day did little to ease the splitting ache of his whiskey-head. God, he'd drunk half the river that morning to cure the terrible thirst.
Baptiste and Dick sat their horses, slumped over like the newly dead. Of the two, Richard certainly looked the worst off. His face was pasty, his mousy brown hair sticking out at all angles. Grease had matted his wispy beard on one cheek.
"I swear that coyote piss is running in my veins," Baptiste muttered, squinting after the disappearing riders.
"Nice of them boys ter see us this far," Travis mumbled, his gut trying to heave again. He fought it down.
"Yep," Baptiste agreed. "How in Tarnal Hell is we gonna mount a guard on these hosses tonight?"
"Just do 'er," Travis grunted. "Reckon one night of fun ain't gonna kill us ... but I sure feel it might. How 'bout ye, Dick? Can ye stand guard all night?"
Hamilton, face green, gave him a bleary-eyed glare.
"C'mon," Travis heeled his horse around. "Let's make tracks. Them boatman'll probably make fifteen miles today."
As the horses plodded along, Hamilton asked dully, "What's a wechashawakan?"
"Ye mean old One-Eye?" Travis asked. At Richard's slight nod, he added, "Wechashawakan means holy man, a medicine man. And old One-Eye, he's a heap powerful medicine. The story is that he can see the future, tu
rn hisself into an owl and fly around—and Sioux ain't too keen on owls." Travis struggled to keep from belching, fearing what might come up with it "Why? He talk ter ye last night?"
"Yes." Richard's body swayed like a grain sack with each step his horse took. "Said I had to choose, that I was a white cloud dog."
"He didn't up and hex you, now?" Baptiste gave Richard a sidelong glance. "I ain't ridin' with no hexed man. No, suh, not this child. Why, hell, you could have lightning and all sorts of grief called down on you. And, if'n that's the way of things, I ain't gonna be no part of it."
Richard croaked, "Said I had to choose. Die like a dog, or turn into a coyote or wolf. Then he almost froze me."
"Huh?" Travis closed his eyes tight to make the spots go away. "Froze ye? That why ye drunk all that whiskey? Hell, I figgered ye fer a frog fer a while. Drinking and dancing."
"I was trying to forget," Richard declared.
"Old One-Eye put the scare into you, boy?" Baptiste asked.
Richard nodded his head carefully, as if afraid it might fall off. "Damn right, he did." Then a pause, as if to change the subject. "I can't believe I drank that much ... and danced all night. And you, Travis, I can't believe you slipped away with that squaw."
Travis ran his tongue around his mouth and grimaced at the taste. The spots had come back. "Worked well for both of us .. .I think."
"You cain't remember?" Baptiste chided.
"Wal, of course I remember, ye damned fool! What in Tarnal Hell do ye think?" Travis lied, forcing his eyes to search the surroundings with their usual wariness.
"Then ye'll remember how cussed ugly she was. Older than Abraham's boot. Hell, couldn't ye dicker fer a pretty young one?"
Travis flipped up the pan on his Hawken, checking the priming. "Ye know, I could blow ye right off that Pawnee nag yer riding—'cept the sound of the shot might kill me."
Richard made a strangling sound, cheeks and eyeballs protruding. Then he belched, and groaned. "Thank the dear Lord God, I thought I was gonna throw up again."