The Morning River

by W. Michael Gear

  He skipped to one side, kicked her brutally in the ribs, and raised his club high. No escape now, Willow. Their eyes locked, and in that instant, he exulted in her terror. "Now you die, witch!"

  He'd just started his club on its downward arc when the concussion knocked him sideways. He staggered, dazed, the ground twisting up to hit him. He blinked, thoughts gone muzzy. A ringing sounded in his ears, and his chest felt odd, sharp with unsensed pain. He coughed, raising his hand to the wetness at his mouth, surprised by the blood. So much . . . blood. He blinked again, seeking to drive the grayness from his vision.

  Heals Like A Willow was watching him, drinking his soul with her eyes.

  Witch, you won't win. I'll beat you . . . in the end. . . .

  The ringing in his ears, the growing gray mist before his eyes, they seemed to fade. If he could just remember. . . what he'd ...

  NINETEEN

  To this war of every man, against every man, this also is consequent; that nothing can be unjust. The notions of right and wrong, justice and injustice have there no place. Where there is no common power, there is no law; where no law, no injustice. Force, and fraud, are in war the two cardinal virtues. Justice, and injustice are none of the faculties of neither the body, nor mind. ... It is consequent also to the same condition that there be no propriety, no dominion, no mine and thine distinct; but only that to be every man's, that he can get; and for so long as he can keep it.

  —Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan

  Reckon that was plumb center!" Travis called from where he lay. The musket fell from Richard's numb hands as the last echoes of the shot died away. He walked through the curling blue smoke, smelling the odor of sulfur from the burned powder. The horses snorted and stamped, panicked by the scent of blood and the sounds of human violence. Richard stared at the macabre scene.

  What have I done? The young Pawnee's body—the chest torn open—dear Lord God, so much blood! How did the human body hold it all?

  The young man's eyes were wide in the penny-brown face, staring and glassy, the black pupils large. Clots of frothy red blood still leaked from his mouth, soaking into the moldy leaves beneath his cheek.

  Young. So very young.

  The woman moaned and moved in a slow writhe. Richard turned, backing away from the dead man, watching her uncertainly. She winced in pain.

  The Indian hit her. Richard remembered that twisted fury when the young warrior turned on her. Why? Because she'd laughed. Right there in the middle of the nightmare, she'd laughed. And the warrior had gone berserk.

  The war club whistling down; the woman twisting desperately away; the war club bouncing off her back to hit the horse; the animal rearing. Her body had slammed the ground like a sack of onions. Still, she'd struggled to escape as the warrior pursued on foot. But her hands were tied. . . tied

  And then I grabbed up Half Man y s musket. Lifted it as the war club was raised. Had he sighted down the barrel, or just pulled the cock back and triggered?

  Don't remember. But the echoes of the shot remained— along with the image of the young warrior jerking from the bullet's impact. Frozen forever in Richard's mind.

  He blinked at the woman. Mute misery reflected in her face, and with it, fear. A young woman, beautiful in a wild sort of way. Her glossy black hair was loose, spilling over her shoulders. Had he ever seen hair that black, that lustrous before? Her skin had a smooth radiance, a vitality he didn't understand.

  She had such slender hands, the fingers long and delicate. Then he saw her wrists' red welts and the rawhide thong that had cut and chafed them.

  "You're safe now," he told her gently, and tried to smile. He reached out to her, to reassure her. But his guts felt suddenly queer. The trembling in his fingers moving into the hand he'd offered her, and on to all of the muscles in his body. Shaking uncontrollably, he sat down to cradle his head in his hands.

  "Oh, God, what did I do?"

  "Dick?" Travis called. "Ye all right, coon?"

  Richard rubbed his face with shivering hands. "I'm alive, Travis. I guess I'm . .. alive. Dear sweet Jesus. I'm alive/'

  "Easy, coon," Travis soothed. "It comes on a body, sometimes. It'll pass."

  I killed a man. Shot him dead. He didn't need to look again. Those empty staring eyes, the blood, would be with him whenever he closed his eyes. But for the wound and blood, the young Pawnee would have looked peaceful, as in repose for a nap, his arm outstretched.

  Richard glanced at the woman; she watched him intently with fathomless, dark eyes.

  The trembling receded, leaving hollow weakness in its wake. He stood, again offering his hands. For an eternal moment her eyes bored into his, and then she reached out to him.

  Her hands were cool, firm in his. As he pulled her to her feet, Richard saw the pain in her face. "You're tougher than I am," he told her. "After what you've been through, I'd be screaming."

  He held her hands up. The knots had pulled so tightly that he couldn't undo them.

  Her eyes fluttered, expression going slack. She swayed on her feet then, head lolling, and Richard caught her as she wobbled and collapsed.

  "What the hell?"

  Travis laughed from where he lay. "Reckon she took a hell of a wallop when she hit that ground. This child would guess she stood up a mite too quick. Pack her over hyar, lad. Let's see what ye ketched."

  Richard got a good grip, and dragged more than carried her. She should have been heavier. Then he was shockingly aware of her soft breasts against his arms. He laid her down gently, awed that he'd touched her so.

  Travis studied her with quizzical eyes. "Snake, by damn! What in hell's she doing clear out hyar?" Then, "Slave, by God."

  "Slave? But she's Indian."

  Travis gave him a disgusted glance. "And I reckon yer Roosoo don't figger 'man in nature' takes slaves?"

  "It's Rousseau. And no, he didn't."

  "Wal, lad, a Pawnee don't tie up his wife with bindings like this. Let's see—roll her moccasins down."

  Richard tried not to touch her warm skin as he pulled the soft tops of her moccasins down to her ankles. The welts there had mostly healed.

  "Slave, all right, " Travis cocked his head, curious blue eyes on Richard. "Reckon she's yern."

  "What?"

  Travis scratched at his beard with blood-caked fingers. "Wal, hoss. Ye raised that Pawnee what had her. She's yers now by mountain law. Reckon she's worth keeping, too. She's right pert. Do ye a good day's work. Warm yer bed at night, if'n she don't drive a knife atwixt yer ribs while yer on her."

  "Travis! She's—she's a human being. I won't own another human being. It's . . . beastly."

  "Wal, fine, Dick. Reckon ye won't mind if'n I take her?"

  "You take! Hell, no! She's free, Travis."

  The hunter chuckled. "Ye takes some, ye does, Dick. You and yer Yankee ideas."

  Richard sighed wearily, absently stroking the woman's hair. How incredibly soft. He'd imagined Indian hair to be bristly. But then, he'd never touched a woman's hair like this—or a woman's breast, for that matter. She was so unlike his Laura.

  Travis winced. "Now, why don't ye take my strike-alight, and build us a fire. I reckon we ain't a-going nowhere soon."

  "I don't know how to make a fire, Travis."

  "Wal, coon, it appears t' be yer day fer laming."

  Heals Like A Willow slept late into the night She blinked, coming awake slowly. The pain wasn't just part of her dreams. She cataloged the sounds as she tried to gather her muzzy thoughts: the distant hoot of an owl. Horses cropped nearby, and water was trickling through the grass. A fire popped. Someone grunted in pain.

  Pain? She reached up to rub her face. Her head ached as if she'd been clubbed half to death . . . and the memories of the afternoon came back in vivid clarity.

  White men! Packrat was dead.

  Willow sat up and gasped. The ache in her head left her sick and reeling. Agony shot up through her hips and back.

  A blanket had been placed over her against the ch
ill of the night, and when she looked down, her wrists were free. When had that happened? How long had she been out?

  Short flames licked up periodically around a chunk of firewood lying in a round bed of glowing coals. In the firelight, she could see one of the White men, the old one. Those odd, pale eyes watched her with interest. His face was drawn in pain. It looked wrong, somehow misshapen, but she knew little of White men and how they ought to look.

  He made the sign for her people: "Snake?"

  She nodded then signed: "What are you going to do with me?"

  He smiled crookedly. "Free."

  She cocked her head. A trap hid in this. But where? Why would the White man at the fort offer two guns for her, when these White men would turn her loose?

  The man's hands continued, "The young warrior killed the Pawnee who kept you. The young warrior says you are free."

  She glanced at the third set of blankets. The young White man was rolled up like a papoose. He hadn't seemed much of a warrior. She remembered the soft look in his eyes as he'd reached out to her. Then he'd been betrayed by the shakes. What had she seen in those brown eyes? Confusion, relief, excitement, all mixed together?

  She gazed down at her hands. She'd seen that look before—in the eyes of her husband. Was that why I took the White man's hand? Or was it the fall that addled me?

  Willow rubbed her flushed face, recalling the way she'd gone dizzy and fallen into the White man's arms.

  How long ago? What did they do when I was senseless? What men did with any woman, no doubt. She reached down under her skirt, but found no indication that a man had taken her. Maybe White men didn't—but, no, that wasn't what the Ku'chendikani claimed. According to the people who knew Whites, they were as bad as, if not worse than, anyone when it came to coupling.

  She flushed at the old White man's knowing eyes as she pulled her hands into view. "Free?"

  He nodded, signing, "Free. But I would ask the Snake woman to stay for several days. I will be very sick. Fevered. The young warrior knows nothing of wounds, or fever. If you help him to help me, we will give you horses. We will take you to your people."

  Take her to her people? Was this where the trap. . . ? She stifled a cry as she shifted and white-hot pain lanced through her. Tarn Apo help me, my back isn't broken, is it? Drawing deep breaths helped, and she shifted to a different position that eased her back.

  At that moment the fire flared; she got a good look at the White man's face. She'd seen scars like that before. He'd fought the white bear—and survived. A powerful warrior, White man though he might be. But why free her? Brave or not, it didn't make sense to turn a good captive loose.

  She signed, "My people live many moons to the west."

  "In the Shining Mountains," he returned. "I know where the Snake live. I have seen their land. We are headed close to there. We will take you home. I speak straight."

  "Why?"

  "Maybe trade with your people."

  Ah! Now I begin to understand. "What makes you think we want trade?"

  "Everyone wants trade."

  Her fingers flashed angrily. "Trade not good. Trade for rifle, must trade for powder, trade for bullet. This is good?"

  He watched her with thoughtful eyes. "Trade makes people wealthy and strong. Snakes need guns to fight the Black-foot. Blackfoot enemy to Whites as well as Snake people."

  "Is it not better that Whites kill Blackfeet?" She glanced at the metal tins. "Is it not better that you trade medicine water to Blackfeet? Make them crazy and weak? Then you can kill them."

  He smiled at her, and signed: "You are too much like Young Warrior. Many questions. Answer one question and he asks two more."

  She started to stand, got dizzy, and sank back.

  "Hurt?" he signed.

  She ignored him, heart racing, senses going blurry.

  "Bad fall," he signed, then pointed to his side and added, "Bad cut. Young Warrior sew."

  She made the signs: "Half Man cut you?"

  He nodded. "Tried to steal whiskey."

  "I heard," she grunted in Pawnee.

  How free am I? She nerved herself, rising slowly to her feet. Squinting against the horrible headache, she made her way, step by step, into the brush. Holding onto a tree, she relieved herself, half expecting a cry of pursuit. When none came, she stepped carefully to the creek and scooped up water. She relished the water's cool touch on her hot skin. She drank all she could hold.

  Go, now. Escape! She glanced out into the darkness, wincing at her pain and blurring vision. How far could she make it before she collapsed? Her stomach tickled "with the urge to vomit. Like it or not, she needed rest.

  But she would do one thing before hobbling back to her blankets. She picked her way to where Packrat lay, almost falling over him in the darkness. With questing fingers she found his war club and picked it up.

  She gasped as she stood again, vision swimming. Her skull must be cracked to ache this badly. She waited out the nausea, and carefully picked her way back to the White man's camp.

  The Bear Man sat as she'd left him.

  "Where are you from?" she signed.

  "All over."

  "And Young Warrior?"

  Bear Man said the word aloud: "Boston." In signs he added, "Young Warrior will tell you about Boston until you are sick of hearing it."

  She grunted noncommittally. Her vision was spinning— the headache shredded her thoughts. Rest a while. Then, after a couple of hours' sleep, she'd slip away, find her mare, and be on her way before sunup.

  "Name?" Bear Man asked.

  In Dukurika she said, "Heals Like A Willow." Then made the signs for it.

  "Travis," he said, then pointed at the Young Warrior all wrapped up in his blankets. "Dick."

  She grimaced against the headache. "Trawis. Dik."

  "Please," he signed. "Help the Young Warrior."

  She closed her eyes, sinking back. Not even bearing her son had been this painful.

  The soft light of morning bathed the land when Richard folded back his blanket. In the half-light the brush had taken on a grayish tint, the dark trees like mysterious spirits suddenly frozen while waving armlike branches.

  Richard yawned, reassured by the lilting trill of the meadowlarks and the long call of the robins. Then he remembered the previous day and sat up. Travis Hartman hadn't moved a hair. Blessed God, he hadn't died in the night, had he?

  Had yesterday really happened? Or was it all a dream? Across the stream, the Pawnee youth still sprawled, the blood turned black. Damnation, it wasn't a dream. / killed him. And what does that make me?

  Richard stood, rubbed his eyes with a knuckle, and walked down to wash his face in the clear water. His reflection—little more than a dark silhouette against the morning sky—stared back at him. What have I become?

  The dark shadow on the water returned no answers.

  The fire had burned down to white ash. Richard stirred it and added the last of the branches he'd collected. Bending down, he blew the embers to life. He sat, stomach growling, staring at the flames through vacant eyes while the previous day replayed over and over again.

  "Yer up?" Travis asked hoarsely.

  "Yes." Was life like firelight? An instant of wavering brilliance, snuffed so quickly?

  "Reckon I could use a drink, Dick."

  Richard fetched Travis's tin cup and filled it at the spring before crouching at Travis's side.

  "Travis, what happened yesterday? None of it makes sense. Half Man going berserk, trying to kill you because I asked questions. The two of you fought like animals. What you did to him . . . ripping his eyes out. . . beating him to death. ..."

  Travis looked ashen, eyes sunken in a drawn face. "A feller's gotta fight like a banshee out hyar. Ain't no way around it. Now, don't go a-blaming yerself for Half Man making his play. He was a-looking fer an excuse. Thought he had me off balance, and took his chance. Come right close ter working, too, Dick. Now, afore ye gets all carried away with yer philos'phy, think hard
on this: Reckon he's a-laying out there, all stiff and gone under. If'n I hadn't a kilt him, we'd both be laying hyar dead. Green's whiskey'd be plumb gone, and that Pawnee coon would be one rich red son of a bitch."

  "And the young man? I don't understand that. Where did he come from? What did he want?"

  "I ain't figgered that meself." Travis resettled himself, wincing as he eased his side. "But, coon, no matter what, we was dead men again. The only thing what saved us was Heals Like A Willow, the Snake woman. I was looking inta that Pawnee kid's eyes. He was gonna kill us dead with that bow, and take the whiskey. That light was a-burning in his eyes as he looked at the tins. And right then, Willow up and laughed. Saw the expression in his face, didn't ye?"

  "Yes. His face screwed up like something wild. It scared me, Travis, I saw she was tied. I just couldn't watch him kill her like that."

  Travis chuckled—and winced. He lifted a hand to his side. "Reckon I didn't bet wrong on ye, Dick. I saw it in yer eyes on the river that day."

  "Travis, please. I'm not the kind of man you think I am. I could never be. My roots are different from yours, not of this wilderness. My only wish is to go home and take up my life again."

  "With this Laura? Want ter tell me about her?"

  "No."

  "Wal, then, best check yer stitching, coon."

  Richard lifted Travis's shirt. The sliced leather was blood-crusted now. "I've got to get this off you, wash it. Then I'll stitch it back up again."

  "I'd be obliged."

  Richard squinted uneasily at the curving wound in the hunter's side. It looked terrible. The skin was puckered and red; blackened blood had soaked into the thread and dried. Here and there, where the sewing was uneven, meat could be seen, and yellow crusts of pus had risen.

  How on earth did I ever do this? Even now Richard felt faint.

  "Is the stitches pulling?" Travis asked, looking down. "Nope? Well, that's some, it is. If'n she don't tear, I reckon I'll heal up pert."

  "How do you feel?"