The Morning River

by W. Michael Gear

  The horse snuffled and shook its head.

  "Whoa, now. Damn you, keep your head up. Travis told me about you. If you get your head down, you're going to buck me right off."

  The afternoon sun cast golden light into the hazel-skirted grove of oak and ash that lined the bluffs descending to the river; it blazed in the high tops of the cottonwoods on the floodplain. Beyond, in shadow, the river had a bluish-brown sheen broken by the sinuous lenticular shapes of sandbars on the far side.

  The wiry pony picked his way down a deer trail, and onto the grass-rich cottonwood bottoms. Richard booted him, and the little horse pounded his way forward in that bone-jarring trot.

  Camp was right where Richard had left it, spirals of blue smoke rising from behind the circular fortification of whiskey tins. Their feet had beaten the grass flat, and trails led down to the water's edge. The other horses whinnied from their pickets.

  "Hello, Dick!" Travis called from where he was propped comfortably on the packs. "See anything?"

  Richard reined the pony to a stop and gratefully slid off the animal. It took a moment for his rubbery legs to hold him. The muscles quivered like violin strings from gripping the horse's barrel. "Can't these Indians use stirrups?"

  "Reckon not. They figger it's only fer white men what can't ride."

  Richard led the horse down to water, Travis hobbling along behind. -*I saw the Maria, She's coming, Travis."

  The hunter sighed, then grinned. "Been a sight worried, coon. Hell, now wouldn't it just figger? We make her all the way around that cussed fort, and they catch Davey with them forged papers and confiscate the boat?"

  "Well, rest assured, she's coming. I'd say she'll be here by noon tomorrow." Richard watched the horse drink. Each swallow of water could be seen as it traveled up the throat. "Willow's still around?"

  "She's gone hunting. I reckon she'll be back." Travis gave him a sideways look. "Yer not sounding happy."

  Richard kicked idly at the sand, then stared out over the silver sheet of river. "I guess by noon tomorrow, I'll be breaking my back on the cordelle, that or wearing a hole in my shoulder with the pole."

  "Reckon so." Travis was silent for a moment. "Why didn't ye run? Ye could have kept right on going—straight south into the fort."

  "It was tempting. To be honest, I thought about it. I thought about a lot of things. But I have an obligation, Travis. You were wounded on my account. I gave the Pawnee the opportunity. If I'd kept my mouth shut, he'd be alive, you would be healthy, and I wouldn't have killed a man."

  "That bothers ye? That ye sent that Pawnee under?" Travis lifted a grizzled eyebrow.

  "I keep thinking about his body, the way it bloated. How it was covered with flies. I have nightmares at night, shooting him over and over. All that blood ... the look in those glassy eyes. ... He was a young man, Travis. Barely more than a child. I still don't believe I killed—murdered him like that."

  Travis scuffed his moccasined toe in the soft sand. The horse had raised his head, muzzle dripping, ears pricked, to look out over the river.

  "Thought ye was the one wanted ter be so damned rational? Wal, if n ye'd not shot him, Willow'd be dead. I'd be dead. And, why, Tarnal Hell! Ye'd be dead, too!"

  "It's not a matter of rationality. It's ... it's how I feel Travis."

  The hunter said, "Wal, Dick, I ain't got the words fer it, not to palaver with a philos'pher. Maybe it's God, maybe it's plumb chance, but there's times when a body's headed fer a mess. Half Man and me, we both knew that first day on the trail that one of us would kill t'other. He figgered he'd walk away, I figgered I would. That was the only real question. What's that word? The one for when something's just bound ter happen? Ain't no way around it?"

  "Inevitable."

  "Inevitable. That's it, Dick. What's yer philos'phers say about that?"

  "They say that human behavior can be changed by reason."

  "Wal, maybe so, given enough time, and given men of like minds, but do ye reckon ye could have reasoned that kid outa killing Willow? Or Half Man outa not trying me?"

  Richard fingered the lead rope. "I don't know. So many of the answers that were crystal clear are turning fuzzy and fading now."

  "Reckon that happens when a man starts growing. This child suspects that any fool can write a book when he's sitting in a room in a city with folks around ter keep his arse safe, a fire in his stove, and his belly full. A feller can justify anything he wants ... so long as it's rational, and there ain't no consequences if'n he's wrong. But out hyar, wal, it plumb ain't real."

  Richard scratched his neck and said nothing, his gut churning.

  Travis reached out to Richard's side and tied the piece of hide to his belt so that the long black hair hung down along his leg. "Wear that, coon. It'll bring ye luck."

  "What is it? What animal did you take it off of?"

  "A kind of skunk that lives out hyar."

  Richard fingered the long hair. "Is it a fetish?"

  "What in hell's a... sure, yep. Reckon so. That's what she be." Travis had a funny look in his eye. "Wal, now, Dick, I got me an idea. Seems we got us eleven hosses, twelve if'n ye counts Willow's. Ain't much above here but trouble. The Omaha country is a couple of days' journey north, but beyond there, yer not going ter find nobody but Sioux, Rees, and Cheyenne until we reach the Mandan. Ain't none of 'em but would lift them hosses plumb quick."

  Richard fingered the glossy skunk hair. "What do we do?"

  Travis reached for his possibles and pulled out his pipe, gesturing with it as he talked, "Wal, the way I'm thinking, a coon needs to have help a-guarding these hosses. Now, if'n ye'd be of a mind not to escape, perhaps I could use ye."

  "Promise not to escape?" Richard frowned, then shook his head. "I can't, Travis. What was done to me was wrong. I have ethical values, and I must stick to them."

  Travis pursed his lips, the effect pulling the scars tight across his ruined face. "Yep. A man's gotta do what he's gotta do. I keep forgetting that."

  "Why do I always get the feeling that you're mocking me?"

  "Mock ye? Wal now, Dick, that's about the silliest idea I've heard since flying buffler chips. Reckon ye'd never catch me a-funning ye, not with all them philos'phy ideas in yer head."

  A twinkle filled Travis's eye as he turned and made his way carefully back to the fire.

  Richard's horse jerked him away from the river, but he led the animal to the picket line instead of letting it crop.

  After he'd tied the horse, he stopped and fingered the fetish. He lifted the long hair and sniffed. It didn't smell like skunk.

  He was still studying it when he got to the fire. "You said this would bring me luck?''

  "Yep." Travis seemed suddenly fascinated by his stained-leather knee. "It's a sign of respect in these parts, Dick. Reckon ye could say it's a sign of a man, one ter be listened ter, and looked up ter."

  Richard frowned and sat cross-legged in front of the fire. "Respect? Why? I mean, why me?"

  Travis puffed on his pipe and handed it over to Richard. "Ye done a man's job this hyar trip. Ye saved me ... saved the whiskey. Saved Willow, fer that matter. Made us rich on hosses—and they'd have cost a heap of goods about the time we made 'er to the Mandans. Yer a man, Dick. By all the rules of this country, red and white. That thar, what did ye call her, fetish? That fetish ain't nothing more than the proof of it."

  Richard glanced skeptically at Travis. "But I'm still a slave?"

  "Man's a slave only so long's he allows himself ter be. Reckon that Packrat, he larned that lesson and did her the hard way."

  "He was going to kill Willow."

  "Of course, she'd beat him at his own game. When a man's got no choice but ter kill his slaves, he's plumb licked. At least by that particular slave. See whar my stick floats, Dick?"

  "Not exactly." Richard puffed on the pipe. The tobacco was welcome—even if it wasn't up to Bostonian standards. "What good is freedom if you're dead?"

  "Ye ever figger what would happen if
all the slaves in the world said no ter their masters? Reckon they'd be beat the first day, whipped the second, starved from then on, maybe even all kilt. Wal, all right, so let's say all the slaves was dead all over the world. Now, do ye reckon thar'd be any more slaves?"

  "Someone will always turn another person into a slave," Richard objected, pointing with the pipe stem. "Plato wrote in his—"

  "Plato? Another philos'pher in a room?"

  "He was. And my point still stands."

  Travis pulled at the fringes on his sleeve. "I reckon so, but a slave can only stay a slave if n he sets more store on his life than on his freedom. I got the story outa Willow. That's how she drove that Packrat coon plumb crazy. Ain't the first time I heard that story. Come upriver with a man what wouldn't be a slave."

  "Life is a pretty powerful argument. . . especially when it's yours."

  "Hand me my pipe back! Ye gonna smoke her dry?"

  "Sorry. I'm sort of used to arguing with a pipe in my hand, but with much better tobacco."

  "Life, ye say," Travis mused, taking a pull. He studied the tendrils of smoke rising from the stained bowl. "Ever hear tell of them Spartans? The ones back in Rome what fought off that Egyptian king and died fer it?"

  "That's a Persian king. At Thermopylae, in Greece. No Romans were involved. What's your point?"

  "They died ter save a heap of others, Dick. Reckon yer no different, not down deep. Reckon if'n it was Katy bar the door, ye'd be just as quick jumping inta the breach. Figger this"—Travis waved his pipe in emphasis—"yer house is on fire. Now, yer whole family is in thar a-screaming, and all ye've got ter do is jump inta the fire, burn yerself, and hold the door open to let 'em out. Ye'd do her, wouldn't ye?"

  "Using my family for an example isn't very smart, Travis. If it was my father in there, I'd be throwing oil on the blaze by the bucketful."

  Travis raised an eyebrow. "No wonder he kicked ye outa Boston. But, anyhow, ye get my meaning."

  "Yes, yes, the examples are necessary. Just not sufficient."

  "Huh?"

  Richard grinned. "Philosophical standards—but, yes, people do risk their lives, and lose them to save others. That's not at issue here. Slavery is."

  "Reckon so, coon. And my point is that no slave needs ter be a slave if'n he's willing ter give up his life ter save himself and all the others. Now, tell me, ain't it damned peculiar—illogical, in yer words—that all the slaves don't just up and quit? Take their chances just like folks do all the time to save their friends and kin, hell, even strangers! No one would have to be a slave again ... ever."

  Richard reached for the pipe, puffing as he frowned. "Mass civil disobedience."

  "Yep."

  "It would never work. It is the nature of the slave to value vain hope for the future over almost certain death and potential greater good."

  "Plumb irrational, wouldn't ye say?"

  "I see what you're getting at. Sure, people are irrational all the time. But, don't you see, it's only through rational action that we can improve our lot."

  "Uh-huh. And if'n ye was rational, ye'd give me yer word that ye'd stick her out to the mouth of the Yellerstone, and help me with the hosses."

  "Why do you care so much?"

  Travis stared moodily at the fire. "Just a cussed streak I got in me. I reckon the bear's outa the cage. Maybe I want ter see him become a real bear."

  TWENTY-TWO

  Then again, on the other hand, the unsophisticated mind takes under its guardianship, the good and the noble (that is, what retains its state of meaning in being objectively stated), and protects it in the only way possible here—that is to say, the good does not lose its value because it may be linked with what is bad, or mingled with it, for to be thus associated with badness is both its condition and necessity, and the wisdom of nature is found in this fact.

  —Georg Friedrkh Wilhelm Hegel,

  Phenomenology of Mind

  Travis grinned as he watched Willow. She stood frozen, stunned as a surprised deer, mouth ajar, eyes wide with astonishment. Her disbelief tickled him clear down to his roots. In the end, she could only shake her head and mutter softly. The Maria was being poled up-river, momentum carrying the boat forward against the current before the next set of the poles. The keelboat might have been some giant water insect, propelled by multitudes of legs across the roiling brown water.

  Travis hitched his way down the muddy bank to stand between Willow and Richard. He raised his rifle, firing a shot into the air. Willow jumped at the concussion.

  "Sorry, gal," Travis mumbled.

  "All right," she whispered absently. Shots answered from the boat, puffs of blue smoke rising over the cargo box. In incredulous tones she rattled away in her Snake tongue.

  Travis pressed a gentle hand to his side. Still damned tender. "Dick. Like her or not, yer on hoss duty fer a couple of days."

  Richard gave him an uneasy glance. "Why me?"

  Travis chewed at his lip and squinted into the midday sun. "Wal, reckon it's like this, coon. This hyar beaver's got a cut in him bigger and uglier than Hob's smile. Reckon I cain't go a-traipsing after the hosses. I plumb sure ain't gonna turn Trudeau nor any of them other French lard eaters out to guard 'em. That leaves ye, Mister Hamilton."

  "I told you I'd escape."

  "Hoss crap! If'n ye'd a wanted ter, ye'd be gone."

  "I told you, it's ethically untenable. I had a responsibility to ensure that you made it back to the boat That you were injured was partially my fault. Here's the boat. When they drop the plank, I will have fulfilled that obligation."

  "Nope. Nothing's changed. I ain't up ter hunting and hoss keeping. Not fer another week at best. Reckon ye can do yer duty, then escape when I get all healed."

  "Travis Hartman," Richard whispered, "you are a black bastard at heart."

  "I reckon so."

  Maria turned gracefully, coasting in toward the bank. Travis had picked this place precisely because the bottom dropped off and the river didn't carry much current. The perfect spot for onloading the whiskey.

  "How do, coon!" came a familiar cry, and Travis shaded his eyes to study the brawny black man at the bow. He stood like a sassy pirate, his dark face shadowed by a large-brimmed felt hat.

  "Baptiste? Tarnal Hell! What are ye doing aboard?"

  "Ha! I be yor new partner, coon!" The ebony face split with a smile. "Life at the fort. . . wal, 'tain't nothing but poor bull. I reckoned I'd come along and hunt down that Pawnee what kilt you, but I see yor topknot's still on!"

  "Reckon so, but she was Katy bar the door! Don't ye come a flying off ter give me no bar hug, neither. Ye'11 squeeze me guts clean out!"

  "You hurt?" Green called from the cargo box as the Maria swung up against the shore. Engages were craning their necks, eyes wide as they whispered back and forth.

  "Sliced nigh in two! But old Dick, hyar, he done sewed me up."

  "Got a squaw, too?" Green studied Willow with a cocked look. "Hell! That's the Snake woman I saw at Fort Atkinson. Where's that Pawnee kid she was running with?"

  "Dick raised him. Shot him plumb center."

  Green gave Hamilton a sidelong glance. "Do tell."

  The plank came out and Willow backed slowly away, looking like a rabbit about to break for the tall sage. "Easy, gal." Travis made the signs. "You are safe. No one will hurt you, I promise."

  She gave him an uncertain look and signed: "Yellow-haired White man tried to buy me for two guns at fort."

  "Why, I'd a fetched five fer ye." Travis winked to reassure her, then in a loud voice hollered: "Hey, Dave! This hyar's Heals Like A Willow. I don't want no harm t' come ter her. She's with me." Travis narrowed an eye to glare wickedly at the engages who stared down with appraising eyes. "Y'all hear that, coons? If'n she don't kill yer arse fer trying ter fool with her, I'll do it! Or maybe Dick, hyar."

  Laughter rose at that.

  "The woman is to be left alone!" Green ordered.

  Henri was leaning on his steering oar, and
rubbed his blunt jaw as he glanced dubiously back and forth between Willow and the engages. He finally muttered, "Chercher des ennuis! Beaucoup troubles.''

  Travis patted Willow on the shoulder. "Ain't nobody gonna bother ye none."

  Engages trotted down the plank, headed for the trees and the tins of whiskey. They leered at Willow with hawkish eyes, and she glared right back at them; her grip on the war club tightened

  Baptiste strode down like a lord, his long buckskin shirt swaying at mid-thigh. Leggings and high moccasins rustled with long fringe. A man might have danced on those broad, muscular shoulders. White teeth flashed in his black face as he looked Travis up and down.

  Willow uttered an amazed sound as Baptiste stopped before them. She made signs, and Baptiste laughed, signing back. Timidly, Willow reached up to rub at his face, and then his hands.

  "What's this?" Richard whispered, leaning toward Travis.

  "Trying to see if the soot will rub off," Travis told him. "Dick, this hyar black cutthroat is my old friend, Baptiste. He goes by Baptiste because he's afraid some coon might recognize his real name."

  "I reckon there's a death warrant fo' me in the United States," Baptiste said easily. He withdrew his hand from Willow's and offered it to Hamilton. The Yankee swallowed hard, but shook, the grip strong.

  Good work, Dick. That'll set ye right with Baptiste.

  Baptiste turned to Travis. "Yor looking a mite peaked, coon. I done warned you about that snaky Pawnee."

  "Wal, I fetched him in the end." Travis cocked his head. "But I thought certain ye had more sense than to sign on ter a crazy venture like this. Ye've always had a fondness fer that topknot of yern."

  Baptiste leaned his head back, the sun's rays bathing his face. "A man can't live shy all his life, mon ami I smelled a possibility."

  Green came bouncing down the plank issuing orders to the engages as they filed out of the trees, heavy tins perched on bent shoulders. He looked at Travis, worry in that bulldog face. "How badly are you hurt, Travis?"