The Morning River

by W. Michael Gear

  The boy, Half Man, had borne the stigma of his Omaha blood with little grace. He'd grown into a surly young m who finally ran off to claim his Omaha heritage. Over the years he had drifted between the two peoples, always m trusted, always suspect, yet able to claim sanctuary w either people. Since the Pawnee traced kinship through the females, Half Man was a full member of his mother's lineage. The Omaha traced descent through the males, making him a full-blood Omaha in their eyes.

  On the day that Half Man arrived at the Skidi village, brought with him a tin of the La-chi-kuts' spirit water: White man's whiskey.

  That night, after council, Half Man had given Makes Enemies Tremble whiskey until the old man went to sleep. Then he let young Braided Woman drink some. And then some more.

  "All I can recall is waking up," Packrat's mother had told him. "My head hurt. I thought for a moment that I had been attacked, hit in the head with a war club. I was lying in the grass outside of the village. Thirsty, horribly thirsty. I sat up and vomited into the grass. That's when I discovered I was naked. Looking down, I could see that I had been with a man. I had bruises on my breasts and my neck had been bitten. Semen had dried on my thighs.

  "I found my blanket and covered myself before I walked back to the village, shamed, trying to hide myself. A couple of days later, when I felt better, I went to Half Man, who was staying in his sister's house, and asked him if we'd coupled He laughed, and said no. He said it before his family.''

  Packrat lifted his head to stare out at the stormy skies. Wisps of white snow blew around the hollow, finally to pile in the lee of the granite boulders.

  Everyone knew that Half Man had lied. The old and familiar anger throbbed in Packrat's chest. From the time of her menstruation until Half Man took her, Braided Woman had not coupled with her husband No other man could have fathered a child in her. Yet Half Man, with the honor and respectability of a weasel, had shamed her in public. The reason was understandable: He wanted to keep his relationship with Knife Chief and Makes His Enemies Tremble. A man did not lie with another man's wife without permission.

  Therefore, Packrat was pira-paru, a hidden child, one unrecognized by others. A pariah who lived at the margins of Pawnee society, but one step up from a slave.

  "I'll tell you what to do," Pitalesharo had said. "You must always remember that you are Panimaha... Pawnee. Because of an accident, your life will never be easy, tiwat But we are a forgiving people, a fair people. It runs in our blood — the gift of Evening Star when she bore the First Woman. Everyone knows who your father is, and what he did to your mother.''

  Packrat threw another twisted sagebrush onto the fire. As flames licked up around the dry branches, the pungent honeyed odor of sage lifted around him and lit the smile on his thin lips. "I told him I should kill Half Man."

  "But no!" Pitalesharo had cried as he lifted his hands. "That is not the way of the cunning Panimaha True, people would agree that it would be a justified murder, but you'd still be suspect, always considered dangerous, not really right for the people. Tiwat, you must be more cunning. Think back to the stories we tell, the lessons we teach. You must prove yourself a better man than all others in finding your revenge. You must do it in a manner that will honor yourself Morning Star, Evening Star, and the White Wolf You must be cunning, tiwat. . . ever cunning!"

  Packrat tilted his head, allowing the cold snowflakes to settle on his hot face. Pitalesharo, Knife Chief's son, called him tiwat, nephew, the most affectionate of Pawnee terms used between men. Of them all, no man was as brave, kind, and strong as Pitalesharo.

  Packrat had considered the lessons taught in the stories, and from them, a plan had been born.

  "I have found my way, tiwatciriks," Packrat answered his distant uncle. "The stories have shown me the way."

  Indeed they had. Packrat had taken two horses and ridden out from the Skidi winter camp, traveling up the river to this place where the Platte vanished into worn rocky gorges and bent south into jagged mountains. He would travel farther west, into the lands of the Shoshoni, and there, he would find a woman. Once he'd captured her, he would return to the Skidi villages, and there he would have his revenge on his father—and in a way that would elevate him in the eyes of his people, and restore the standing of his long-suffering mother.

  The wind howled harder, white wraiths of snow streaming past. Packrat, "he who collects things," glanced up into the darkness. Evening Star's guardians shook their rattles and danced furiously to produce a storm like this one.

  Thinking of Evening Star, and the war at the dawn of time, made him smile. Retribution could come in many ways. The people would talk forever about Packrat and the way he had repaid Half Man for his perfidy.

  Packrat stood for a moment, looking westward into the wind and storm. Somewhere, out there in the blackness, he would find a woman. Then, all he needed to do was carry her safely to the big Skidi village. After that, he could take his place among the people, and no one would doubt him.

  A sleet-mushy rain fell from the black spring sky as Travis Hartman followed the trail that led down toward the muddy bank where the Maria was tied off. In the distance, beyond the murky Illinois shore, lightning flashed against the night: the first of the year.

  And just maybe an omen, Travis told himself.

  The treacherous trail snaked down between trunks of green ash and pin oak; their roots stuck up to ensnarl the unwary foot. Travis slipped and slid, but kept his balance. As he stepped out of the trees he crunched across riverbank gravel to reach the Maria. Travis hoisted himself onto the wet deck and rounded the corner of the cargo box before ducking inside through the low doorway.

  An oil lamp cast a glow over the interior. Green lay in his blankets, a ledger propped up on his knees. Green had thrown his blankets over stacked bolts of cloth to make a soft, if lumpy, bed. He glanced up, recognized Hartman, and lifted an eyebrow as he set the ledger aside. "Bit early for you to be in, isn't it?"

  'Trouble/' Hartman took off his soaked hat and shrugged out of his dripping coat before reaching down into a gap between flour kegs to retrieve a salt-glazed jug. Twisting out the wooden stopper, he lifted the jug and took a deep swig before grimacing and wiping his lips with a sleeve.

  "T'ain't just water staining your coat, is it?" Green gestured at the wet jacket. Dark red smears had run in the rain.

  "Reckon not. Chouteau's starting ter take an interest in Dave Green, Travis Hartman, and the Maria. A couple of Chouteau's engages wanted a little talk with me." Travis grinned. "I guess one of them boys must'a busted his nose when he hit the side of Smith's Tavern. Them logs is all hickory and ash and walnut. And thick, too. A feller shouldn't otta run his face into 'em like that." Hartman rubbed at one of the red stains. "I guess his head did a little leaking whilst I was a-dragging him away."

  "And the other one?"

  "Oh, wal, I reckon he jist plumb passed out when I whacked him 'longside the head with that ax handle ol' Smith was whittling down fer halting." Travis smacked his lips, shaking his head. "I figger it like this. Them boys surely ketched the worst of it, and I got ter feeling a mite upset that they's all bunged up. So what, I asks meself, would do them shady lard eaters good? Why, a boat ride, I tells meself back. That's what they wanted ter ask this ol' coon about in the first place.

  "Wal, sure 'nuff, I drug their heavy carcasses down ter the water, tied 'em up right pert, and dropped 'em in a pirogue. Then I sort of cast the whole shitaree off into the current and figgered that they'd get a sight of traveling in afore they fetched up on an embarrass, or else reached Natchez. One or t'other."

  Green gave him a hard stare. "I don't reckon you could have just lied to them and sent them on their way?"

  Travis fingered his chin, frowning, and shook his head. "Wal, Dave, I might'a ... but I ain't sure they'd a taken ter such palaver. One of 'em was old Jacques Valmont. Didn't know the other feller. Reckon I knew his kind, though. Big, mean, had half his ear bitten off, and a nose what looked like somebody tried to make h
ominy outa it."

  "Jacques Valmont." Green grunted. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but you killed his brother a couple of years back up on the Heart River, didn't you?"

  "Something like that, I reckon." Travis took another swig from the jug. "Hell, Dave, they jist come outa the dark and Jacques starts in asking about ye and the boat and where we was a-headed. Wal, thar's bad blood atwixt us anyhow, and I plumb didn't like the tone in his voice. That other feller with him had his hand on his pistol, and Jacques had his knife out. I reckon I jist laid into 'em."

  "Jacques had his knife out?" Green mused, looking someplace far away. "None of the Valmonts ever bluffed for a damn. I reckon they meant business." Green looked up. "You're sure you didn't kill 'em?"

  "Wal, I didn't lift their topknots/'

  Green rubbed his square jaw, eyes slitted. "We've got thirty-one men. Barely enough to move the boat."

  "They'll do. Dave, we're outa time. We been lucky as it is. I don't think we got more'n a day afore someone important perks up and takes serious notice. Not with Jacques and his pal up and missing."

  Green brooded in the lamplight. "You know, Travis, I've bet the world on this."

  "Reckon ye could sell 'er out. Cut a deal with Chouteau, a boat full of goods ... delivered."

  "Can't. I already thought some about that. I mean, well, what am I? I'm a trader—always have been. What would I do? Just build me a nice house, sit in Saint Louis, and sip wine? No, old friend. I'd rather take my chances on losing it all. Here I could waste away in comfort, but out there, I have the chance to build an empire."

  Green stared down at his hands, working his fingers back and forth. Weather had browned the skin like leather. Those calluses had come of hard work, and the man behind them had a soul built of the same sinew, bone, and muscle.

  Hartman grunted and sucked at the jug again. "Reckon I foller where yer stick floats, Dave. Tain't neither one of us a gonna die in bed. Now, that's fer sure." After a pause he added, "Don't know much about this crew I done scavenged. Some'11 make her with the rye on, some we might have ter shoot afore we make it upriver. Hell, I even bought one fer a penny from old Francois."

  Green glanced up. "Francis? He still around? I'd have thought he'd have been hung by now."

  "Nope. Last I heard, he done floated over inta Illinois someplace ter trade liquor. Something happened and Francois kilt a couple of men. Heard he slipped off south ter Fort Massac, and now he's back here. Seems as if some poor Yankee Doodle from back East got crosswise with him, that's sure, and Francois got him in the end."

  "Huh. So what's the matter with Francois? He get religion or something? Why didn't he cut the pilgrim's throat and dump him in the river? It's not like him to fart around."

  Travis hitched himself onto a barrel, his head bent low under the plank ceiling. In the light, Dave Green's blocky face looked as if he saw all damnation looming before him. Everything Dave had hung by a thread, and the saws of fate were fraying that single hope.

  "Wal, you know Francois. He's always been a bit notional. Reckon it's jist my guess, but he's playing some sort of joke."

  "Is that so? Francois's jokes are usually funny only to Francis. Remember that time up at Fort Manuel? Francois had those spectacles he was clowning around in? That Oto boy stole them one night, and Francois caught the kid, poked his eyes out, and gave him them spectacles afterward. Said it would help him see better."

  "Yep, I remember. Francois's got a mean streak that'd make a Blackfoot plumb proud."

  Green lay back on his blankets. "Only a fool'd cross someone like Francois. Knowing that, why'd you pick this man up?"

  "Figgered he was one more body. Whatever Francois's reasons, the pilgrim's better off pulling our boat than floating face down in the river. Francois swears himself blue that he's got a legal paper on this feller. Said we could have the Yankee Doodle's contract of indenture for a penny. All I had ter do was promise ter make the pilgrim fill out his time—or shoot him if'n he cut and run."

  Water lapped on the hull, and out in the trees the wind sighed in the dripping black branches.

  Green continued rubbing his hands together, the hollow sound loud in the silence. Then he said, "If Francois is involved, something's rotten. Keep that in mind."

  "I did. Told him if'n he pulled a fast one, I'd kill him. 'Course, I ain't expecting much outa the Doodle. But like I say, I reckon he's better off a-pulling on the cordelle than he'd be as fish food." Travis paused. "Ye've heard of this Lizette? The Creole whore?"

  "She ain't exactly a whore." Green gave him a wry look. "A woman like that, well, they call her a courtesan. I've met her. Couldn't afford her."

  "Wal, it appears Francois can. Says she's done tied a ribbon on his wang."

  "His funeral, then. She's more'n he can handle." Green nodded to himself. "All right. Time's up. Dawn—day after tomorrow, Travis. Get the men together." Green closed his eyes, and lay completely still in the lamplight. Only the rising and falling of his chest distinguished him from a corpse.

  Travis took another swig from his bottle, and cocked his head as a rat scampered somewhere behind the packed cargo.

  NINE

  Again, men have no pleasure, but on the contrary a great deal of grief, in keeping company, where there is no power able to over-awe them all. For every man looketh that his companion should value him, at the same rate he sets upon himself: and upon all signs of contempt, or undervaluing, naturally endeavours, as far as he dares, (which amongst them that have no common power to keep them quiet, is far enough to make them destroy each other), to extort a greater value from his condemners, by damage; and from others by example.

  —Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan

  Richard lay shivering in the dark. Lonely and forgotten. But then, I've been lonely all of my life, haven't I? If only his mother hadn't died. How different would his life have been? He might have been able to grow up like the others, like Will Templeton. Will never had to live with the knowledge that his father often slipped away in the night to lie with a mysterious woman.

  I'll never forgive you for that, Father. Mother lies in her grave, and you sate yourself in another woman's arms. Once, Richard had thought to discover his father's mistress's identity, but Phillip had been as canny as an old fox about keeping his secret.

  No matter what, Laura, I will be yours alone. If I live through this, I swear I will never betray this sacred trust between us. He nodded to himself, savoring the solemnity of his vow.

  Then he heard the door open. Fear crawled down his nerves as he stared into the blackness. Two men, burly shadows, entered, then came a third man bearing a lantern. The man opened the lantern's shutter and a feeble light played across the room.

  "There he is. Goddamn, he stinks worse'n a privy."

  Richard squinted into the light, unable to make out the figures. Rough hands grabbed him by the shoulders and feet.

  Dear God, what now? "Who . . . who are you?"

  "Shut up!"

  "Where are you taking me? Help! Help!"

  A big fist lashed out of the darkness and sparks blasted through Richard's vision.

  "Keep yer mouth shet or you'll git another one o' those," a voice rasped in his ear.

  "0 mon Dieu! He has pissed himself," another of the men cursed.

  I'm going to die. How would it be? His throat cut? A blow to the head? He twisted, driven by panic, but a hard cuff to the side of the head stunned him. He swung slackly in their arms as they carried him out into the night.

  Dear God, don’t let me die! Those mocking words, spoken so long ago in Boston, slipped loose in some desperate corner of his mind. Three weeks and he'd run the country? The material world could be molded by perceptions? Think of me as an animal tamer? Why don't you start a government? A warrior, conquering with the sword of philosophy!

  Gripped by terror, he was barely conscious of his shivering body swaying between the men as they hustled him along night trails. The dark boles of trees rose into a black filigree of branches. The sm
ell of the river—mud, water, and rotting vegetation—filled his nostrils. Then he heard voices, soft in the night, growing louder.

  "Hartman?" one of the abductors called out.

  "Hyar, coon!"

  Richard's captors turned toward the voice, cursing as they stumbled and slid down a steep embankment and out of the protection of the trees. A plank bounced under the men's feet and Richard was dropped on a wooden deck. He stared desperately at the stars, waiting for the discharge of a pistol or the bitter sting of a knife. Water slapped a hollow rhythm against the hull.

  "Here's your delivery." One of the captors smacked his hands, as if to clean them. "I been told I get a penny."

  "And I get papers," a tall shadowy form replied. "Francis said this was all legal."

  Paper crackled. "Here. Francois told me the pig signed it."

  "Yer sure?"

  "Sure? What is writing, eh? Chicken tracks on paper? Who knows? I was just told to bring him here. Francois has given his word, rcorc?"

  The tall shadow pointed with a hard finger. "I reckon, and I give him mine. If'n he's crossed me, I'll drive a knife inta his greasy French belly, down low, and saw it right up through his brisket ter his jawbone."

  "I do not think, mon ami, that Frangois would trick you."

  A low chuckle erupted. "No, I don't reckon he would. I figger he knows this child too good. Hyar's yer penny. Give my regards to Francis ... and old August, too, eh?"

  "Son voyage, Hartman. Just don't let him break his contract, eh? That was Francis's only condition."

  Richard closed his eyes as footsteps retreated across the deck and down the bouncing plank. When he looked up, dark shapes had gathered like blots against the stars.

  "Christ," a voice muttered. "He stinks like pig shit. Dip him in the river for a while."