“I can’t see much anymore.” He stared at her. “Next year. He’s supposed to come back here next year. The rifle, that’s what a father gives to a son.”
She marveled. She had known for a long time that his vision wasn’t good, knew that when he hunted he wanted her along. Knew when he asked about things ahead, or moving animals, he was making sure. He couldn’t see things close at hand, either, and had stopped studying those mysterious signs in books, stopped reading. But never until now had he confessed to it, and somehow he had even been able to hunt well enough. He knew from the way animals moved what they were, knew the stolid walk of the buffalo, the bounce of a running deer, the race of antelopes.
Now, for the first time, he was acknowledging it. And for the first time in many winters, he had spoken of his son, as if the boy were back from the dead.
“Will he come here?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Eight years of schooling. Who knows?”
“Next year, he is free?”
Skye lifted his hat and stared into the red-rock high country. “I don’t know that he’ll want to see us. He’s been away a long time, and he’s got a good schooling now. He’s used to the city. He wouldn’t like it here. Stuck with an old man who hasn’t seen the inside of a school for half a century.”
She marveled. He had not talked about Dirk for years on end, and sometimes she thought the boy was dead, and Skye wouldn’t mention his name, the way the Native people didn’t name the dead. But now, suddenly, sitting on this cottonwood log beside a clear creek, he was talking about a boy who was ripped away and scarcely heard from again, except for a perfunctory letter waiting each spring at Fort Laramie saying he was well and learning his lessons.
“This school. Is it like a white man’s prison?” she asked.
“I haven’t ever seen it,” he said. “But there’s a dormitory for younger boys, another for older boys, a dining hall, some classrooms, and a church and rectory.”
She hardly knew what all that was about. “The blackrobes?” she asked.
“Jesuits. Society of Jesus. You’ve met Father de Smet on his travels.”
She had liked Father de Smet, the blackrobe who liked Indians and defended them against sickness and the Yankee soldiers and government.
“What will he be like?” she asked, dreading the answer. Would there be a terrible gulf between his Indian mothers and the educated boy?
“If he comes. Who’s to say?” he asked. He peered into her eyes. “I didn’t do it for me. If it was for me, I’d have kept him here, showed him everything I learned here. He could be looking after us now.”
“Will he hate you?” she asked, the thing that had been smoldering in her breast for many winters.
“He was too young to rip away from us,” he said. “But Bullock was leaving. It was then or never.”
She didn’t like the brittle tone in his voice; this was something he had been rehearsing and reliving and regretting for all those winters past. And the lack of any more children only deepened Skye’s desolation. Skye had sent his only boy away and torn his own small family apart.
He rose abruptly, and Victoria knew she must not ask any more or mention Dirk again. He limped to his horse, his back stiff against her, almost in rebuke for opening this subject. He pushed himself heavily into his saddle, and she slid into hers, and they turned their ponies up the red-rock valley and the distant pass they must surmount.
She rode behind, aware that something valuable had happened there, while they rested themselves and their horses. She never did understand goddamn white men, and she had understood Skye not at all when he had sent North Star away and broken the heart of his two mothers. But it had broken Skye’s heart too, and that was what she marveled at now. She had never realized that. He had sent Dirk away for the boy’s sake, so the boy could find a good life. And he had suffered for it, every day of his life since then. She didn’t know the meaning of all this, but she knew, at last, what had gone through the heart of the man she loved.
They rode uneventfully over the high saddle that would take them toward Mary’s people, and descended Muddy Creek, through a quiet afternoon. Skye rested often, mostly to relieve his tormented leg. Victoria was grateful for the rests as well. Once she saw a doe and fawn, and resisted drawing her bow. The Texas foreman had given the Skyes enough meat and biscuit to reach the Wind River Reservation. She watched the doe lead the speckled fawn toward safety, and thought about the drovers and their vast herd of beef, which would all be killed and eaten someday.
She wondered whether white men apologized to the spirit of the animal they had just killed, the way many of her people did. She had a ritual prayer. I am sorry to have taken your life, she would say to the downed animal. And she would wish the spirit a good voyage to the place of spirits. She meant to ask Skye whether white men ever felt sorrow for taking the life of one of their cows or sheep. But somehow she could not bring herself to ask him that.
They reached the banks of the Wind River the middle of the next day, and made their way upstream, toward the towering peaks in the distance, following a well-worn trail along the cold river. This was Mary’s home. She would be there with the lodge, and there would soon be a joyous reunion of Skye’s family.
Within the hour they reached Fort Washakie, and discovered log buildings, and also a cluster of log homes, along with some traditional lodges. There were even some white clapboard structures that she thought were government buildings. These had fieldstone chimneys, some of which were leaking gray smoke. Plainly, the Eastern Shoshones were acquiring the ways of white men. Their great chief, Washakie, had befriended white men and wanted to teach his own people the ways of these Europeans who were filtering through their country. He was as old as Skye but more vigorous, and had an almost mystical power over his people. He knew English and French, having learned it from the trappers, and this had enabled him to deal with the Yankees and win for his people a great and beautiful homeland along the Wind River.
Now, as she and Skye wandered into this sprawling but tidy settlement, she looked for Mary and the familiar lodge, but she saw neither. Skye reined in his pony, unsure where to go or what to do, and then started a systematic search for his lodge, even as Shoshone children and women, and a few elders, congregated around them. They all knew the Skyes, and they greeted the Skye family joyously—except for one thing.
“Where is our Blue Dawn?” a woman asked.
Skye knew enough of the tongue to understand. “Isn’t she here?” he replied.
They stared at one another. Mary, it seemed, had not come to Fort Washakie at all, and no one had seen her for many moons.
An unease built in Victoria. Surely Mary would have sent word. But it was plain that Skye’s younger wife had never arrived, no Skye lodge had been raised here, and the Shoshones had no knowledge of her whereabouts.
Victoria was well aware of all the troubles that could befall a lone Indian woman traversing a vast land. Bears, storms, hail, sickness, injury, a broken leg, a lamed pony, death at the hands of hostile tribes, and something more. White men. Had that ugly bunch with Yardley Dogwood caught her, saw how vulnerable and beautiful she was, used her, and then killed her as they would kill some camp dog?
The thought must have crossed Skye’s mind too, because she found herself staring into his worried eyes. Those savages from Texas knew no boundaries.
About then Mary’s brother, The Runner, gray at the temples now, pushed through the throng.
“It is thee,” he said. “Art thou here for a visit?”
Skye had always loved The Runner’s Elizabethan English, gotten from studying the Bible and Shakespeare given to him by a white teacher long before.
“We are. It’s good to see you, my brother. And where is Blue Dawn?”
“Thou hast asked a question I cannot answer.”
“She came ahead of us. Victoria left her on the Yellowstone. She was coming here.”
But The Runner could only stare, sadly. “Brother
and sister, come to my house. We will await Blue Dawn there. See my house? It is built the way of white men.”
Skye nodded reluctantly. “Has there been any word of trouble? Are there hunting bands from other tribes in the area?”
“No, only the sweetness of spring doth fill the air … But yes, word hath come that some white men with many cattle are upon the Big Horn River.”
Skye’s dread was palpable to Victoria. She thought that she and Skye might soon retrace their steps, this time looking for a hasty grave.
twenty-five
Mary found herself at a place where the iron horse ran on silvery rails. For a day or two, she had heard the wail of whistles and the distant clatter of the steam cars, but she had never seen a railroad or a train. Now she halted her horses at the sight of a graveled road running along the Platte Valley, and on this road were wooden cross ties, and metal rails, stretching mysteriously east and west. An iron horse would not alarm her. She had seen the fireboats on the Big River, the fires making steam, which pushed a piston, which drove the paddlewheels.
Surely the iron horse would make as much noise and be as ferocious as the fireboats. Sometimes the fireboats had scared the ponies, and she didn’t doubt that these horses, given her by the Choctaw Kid, would take alarm too. Still, for reasons she could not fathom, she abandoned the Big Road, which ran closer to the Platte River, for this arrow-straight iron road, and led her horses eastward along it. No iron horse came for a long time, and when she reached a place where there was a big tank of some sort on stilts, she stopped. It didn’t take any effort to see that this was a place where they ran water into the iron horse, to make steam.
She stood there, contemplating these wonders, when she did hear the distant chuff of a train, this one behind her, going east. There was the same chuff as the boats, but there was also an odd roar or rattle. She steered her horses back to a grove of box elders nearby, and waited, curious about this thing. She dismounted, for fear that the horse would buck or become unmanageable, and simply waited. Off a way she saw a plume of smoke, and then the iron engine rounded a gentle bend, and behind it was a string of boxcars. She knew at once this train carried freight, not people, and she was grateful because it was white strangers she feared most, especially here. She thought maybe she should not be here, and faded deeper into the grove of box elders.
The chuffing engine, belching smoke, slowed and then she heard a great squealing and didn’t know what that was about, but the train was grinding to a stop. The nervous horses yanked at the reins she held in her hand, but didn’t balk or bolt. They had seen the iron beast before, she thought, and didn’t panic.
The engine halted directly under the tank on stilts, and then seemed to die, or sag into a temporary death. It sat on four big iron wheels, and four smaller wheels in front, and smoke issued from a conical chimney at the front. An iron grille at the front was plainly intended to sweep aside anything in the path of the iron horse.
A man in blue coveralls emerged from the cab on the engine, climbed upward, swung the chute of the water tank to a place on the little car behind the engine, and opened a hatch there. Then he spun an iron wheel, and she knew water was flowing from the big dark tank into the little car behind the engine. Other men climbed to the ground. One lit a cigar. Another turned toward the track and urinated on it. A third, walking along the cars, seemed to study the wheels of each one. The cars looked to be empty, their doors open to the wind.
Her horse snorted, and they saw her then. For a moment they did nothing, but finally two of them headed her way. She did not flee, but held her ground. In fact, she chose to push forward to meet them, so they would know she was not afraid.
“Damned squaw,” he said, eyeing her. “Where the hell did she come from?”
She responded at once. “I speak your tongue. My husband taught it to me. I am Mary, of the Snake people. I have never seen the iron horse.”
“Snakes, lady, you’re a long way from home. Where’s your man, eh?”
“I go to St. Louis to see our son. He is in the blackrobe school.”
“That’s a long way. He couldn’t buy you a ticket?”
She didn’t know how to respond to that, so she kept silent.
“That’s a long way you got to go, lady,” said the other, this one with a trim dark beard and kind eyes.
“I wish to see my son. His name is Dirk, but I call him another name.”
“Dirk? That’s a rare one.”
“My man is from this place called England.”
“Well, I’m Will Mahoney and I never saw an Englishman I liked.”
She didn’t like the tenor of this, and started to wheel away but Mahoney stayed her.
“You want a ride? We ain’t going to St. Louis, we’re going to Omaha, but you just go down the Big Mo from there.”
She was confused.
“These are deadheads, empties,” he said. “I’ll take you if you want.”
“I have no money.”
“Naw, free ride, unless the railroad dicks chase you off.”
“Omaha?”
“Upriver some from St. Louis. You git off, the Omaha yards, and I reckon you can go on down the river road to wherever your boy is.”
“Why you doing this, eh? What do I pay you?”
She wanted it plain. There were things she would not do, and white men supposed that they could do them with any Indian woman.
He shrugged. “Deadheads. Most of our freight goes west. Might as well help a lady out.”
The one working the water chute had finished, and was cranking a wheel closed. They would go soon.
“I don’t know how to feed or water my horses in there.”
“I know a car with some hay in it. That suit you?”
“How do I put my horses in one?”
He pointed at something, a wooden structure near the tank. There was a pen there too.
“How do I get them out when I leave?”
He grinned. “Trust us.”
The other one, the cigar smoker, yawned.
“I will,” she said.
“Beats riding them nags five hundred miles,” he said.
They led her to the pen, and showed her the chute that her horses could climb to enter the car.
“Wait here,” one said.
A moment later the engine crawled forward until eleven cars had passed, and then stopped when the bearded young man swung a lantern. The car door was open wide, and inside was abundant scattered hay.
It took a sharp rap on the rump to drive each horse up and in, but in moments she was in the car with the gaping door.
“Easy, ain’t it?” the bearded one said. “I’m the brakeman. Will Mahoney. I’ll keep an eye on you.”
She wondered how foolish she had been, but saw only a cheery smile behind that beard.
“My man, Barnaby Skye, would be very pleased with you.”
“Maybe I’ll make an exception,” he said.
He vanished from the door, and a moment later she felt a soft jolt and a thump and the car began to roll east. The nervous horses circled around, but she unsaddled them and tied their bridle rein and halter rope to a rail on the wall. They tugged at the lines, and then settled down, even as the train gathered speed and Mary began to see the trees and meadows whirl by, faster than anything she had ever seen before. She made a soft place in the hay for herself to sit, and then let one horse at a time dig his snout into the hay while she held the line.
Sometimes the boxcar lurched violently. Other times it rolled so smoothly she marveled at it. Sometimes they rocked between woodlands, where the road cut through forestland. Other times the Platte River vanished from view. She could scarcely imagine her good fortune. From her doorway she saw running deer, alarmed crows bursting into the sky, a coyote paralyzed at the sight of the huffing train. And once she saw a wagon on the Big Road, its oxen plodding west.
Still, she realized she was now a prisoner. She could not jump down, and neither could her ponies. They c
ould take her wherever they wished, do whatever they wished, and she could not escape them. She eyed the roadbed passing in a blur before her eyes, and knew that if she tossed herself onto that gravel, she would break bones and abrade her flesh. But trains didn’t always go fast. They slowed now and then. They would stop for more water, or more of the black rock that burned.
She resigned herself to a long wait, and settled on a bed of hay she swept together. Then she watched the prairie go by, and the river bottoms pass from view. This iron horse was taking her where she wished to go, and that was all that mattered.
A long time later, the train slowed and then ground to a halt. Some whitewashed buildings stood in an orderly square, but the place looked deserted. She peered out the door, and discovered Will Mahoney approaching.
“Stopping here, if you have needs,” he said. “This is Fort Kearny. Used to be a big place when the Oregon Trail was the way west, but now they’re fixing to close it. One company’s all that’s left.”
“Soldiers? Will I be safe?”
“Long as you don’t scalp someone.”
She slid over the edge of the car and dropped to the ground. “It is good to stand and walk,” she said.
“I should tell you, this here’s where you should get off if you want to ride direct to Independence and St. Louis. From here on the train goes to Omaha.”
She had no idea what to do, but he sensed her confusion. “If I was you, I’d just stay on. In the Omaha yards, I’ll get you off and you just ride down the river three, four days to where you’re going.”
“I will do that, then.”
“Tell me. Is this son of yours a hellcat?”
She stared, frightened. “I do not know …”
“Oh, hellcat. Is he wild as a catamount?”
Mary retreated into silence.
“Reason is, I got me a Pawnee woman. I fetched her out of a cathouse and now we’ve got a boy, half wild Pawnee, half wild Irish, so I’m wondering if he’s going to be like your boy.”
“My boy—I haven’t seen him for a long time.”
Mahoney grinned. “Got rid of the little devil, eh? Well, I figure I’m raising a wild little beast. There’s no law, no rule I don’t want to bust, and my woman, she never heard of God. I just got the notion my little tiger, he’s like your little tiger, he’s half civilized, half savage.”
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