"Ritshard did not want to pull the boat."
Travis grinned. "Reckon he still figgers he's a gentleman."
"Jentl. ..What is that?"
"Gentleman, uh, like a sort of chief. Not like a worker. Whites have these differences among them."
"So do Pawnee." A frown marred her brow. "Ritshard is a chief?"
Travis reached into his possibles and found what remained of his tobacco twist. He cut a length and chewed it until it juiced. After spitting a brown streak, he said, "Not a chief, exactly, but I'd guess you'd say a respected man. One looked up to by most people."
"But not the engages?''
"Now, Willow, ye got ter understand, Dick's got ter earn his way." He waved his hand. "This hyar ain't Boston. It's the river, and rules is different wharever ye goes. Dick ain't larned that yet."
"Tell me of this Boston."
"It's a city. Cold in winter. Good taverns . . . but a mite hard on coons deep in their cups. Not the kind of place a feller wants ter go a-sleeping in the street, that's plumb certain."
"Ritshard wishes for a place like this?"
"Wal, ye see, he figgers it a bit different than this child. 'Course, every feller's got the right ter his own brand of hydrophobia."
"Hydro...?"
"Foaming mouth—like the critters get. White bubbly spit leaking from the mouth? Won't get near water. Crazy mean—bites everything in sight. You know the sickness I mean?"
"I know it. You think Ritshard wanting Boston is a sickness? Crazy?"
"Yep."
"Why do you not let him go, Trawis?"
He reached up and scratched his ear. "In the beginning we needed men, Willow. Just like ye see down there, each one pulling as hard as he can. Times is, just one body can make the difference atwixt living and dying."
"Green took on men at Fort Atkinson."
''Yep."
At that moment, Richard stumbled on the cordelle, dragging two more men down after him. Another fell, and then another. Shouts carried up to them as the men floundered, battling the rippling brown current and the weight of the cordelle. The river's grip pulled Maria back, and the scrambling men with her. Some were dragged through the water, floundering as they sought their feet.
"Come on. Come on" Travis knotted his fists, moved his quid from cheek to cheek, and prayed fervently.
Baptiste let out a bellow, bracing himself and gripping the cordelle. Trudeau cursed and shouted, plunging along the thick rope. The men who'd fallen had scrambled for a hold, slowing the retreat, stopping it just as the Maria swung like a pendulum toward the end of the embarras with its foaming Whitewater and pointed logs.
"Pull!" Green's scream carried from the river. "One more slip and we're dead!"
Henri battled the steering oar while Maria slipped closer to death on the jutting logs. If she hit, they'd tear through her like teeth.
The engages bellowed and pulled, Trudeau motioning them onward. Maria edged ahead.
"Come on," Travis prayed. "Hold her, boys."
For long minutes they watched silently as the misty rain picked up. The boat inched forward against the surging water.
Willow pulled her blanket over her head, and Travis noted the strain in her face. Richard had been dragged through the mud. He coughed, soaked and bedraggled, as he leaned into the cordelle.
Maria edged away from destruction.
"Close one." Travis rubbed his face. "Mighty close."
Maria pulled clear of the current. The weary engages toiled toward the sandbar. At the lead, Lalemont staggered out onto the land, feet pocking the muddy sand.
Henri steered wide of the shallows to keep draft. Green was rocking from foot to foot, still tense with fear.
"What if the boat sank?" Willow glanced at Travis.
"We'd be in a mess. If'n we lose that boat, she's a long walk ter Saint Loowee. Green would have lost everything he's worked for. All them years . . . gone."
''You White men are hydro . . . hydro—"
"Hydrophobied."
"Crazy."
"Reckon so, gal. Ain't no worse than some, I'd say."
"Some?"
"Folks. Guess we're all a little crazy. Maybe yer Tarn Apo made us that way."
"Not in the beginning, Trawis. But after the Creation, when Coyote was making trouble, that's when the world got crazy."
The engages had all reached the thin spit of sand. They lined out now, holding their places on the cordelle, catching their breath.
Trudeau walked down the line to Richard, waving his arms, shouting angrily. Richard stood stoop-shouldered, chest heaving as water trickled down his face.
Travis couldn't hear the words over the distance, but Trudeau balled a fist and drove it deep into Richard's gut. The Yankee doubled under the impact and dropped flat onto the mud.
"Son of a bitch," Travis growled, eyes narrowing. "The kid couldn't help falling."
Baptiste had left his place, running down to pull Trudeau off. The other engages watched silently. Trudeau and Baptiste stood toe-to-toe, and finally Trudeau shook his head with disgust and tramped off to take up the cordelle again.
Baptiste had bent over Richard, then pulled him to his feet.
"Levez!" came Trudeau's cry. And the engages threw themselves into the endless pulling.
Richard stood bent over, head hanging as the engages pulled past him, none daring to look him in the eye.
Willow sat in stony silence, a hardness in her delicate face.
"Wal, I'd reckon thar's more coming from Trudeau."
"Ritshard should kill him," Willow said woodenly.
Travis allowed himself to slump in the saddle again. "Ye care fer that Yankee, don't ye?"
She glanced at Travis with smoldering eyes. ''Power. . . how do you say? The medicine is strong in Ritshard. He has a fire in his soul, one that he does not know yet. Green has his boat. The engages their work. Ritshard looks for more. I understand that quest."
"Quest?"
''The search, Trawis. One day, Ritshard will find it, and when he does, he will be a great man."
Travis ground on his quid for a moment, spat the juice, and crossed his arms. "Maybe. 'Course, we gotta keep him alive long enough."
TWENTY-SIX
It may seem strange to some man, that has not well weighed these things; that nature should thus dissociate, and render men apt to invade, and destroy one another: and he may therefore, not trusting to this inference, made from the passions, desire perhaps to have the same confirmed by experience. Let him therefore consider with himself when taking a journey, he arms himself, and seeks to go well accompanied; when going to sleep, he locks his doors; when even in his house he locks his chests; and this is when he knows there be laws, and public officers, armed, to revenge all injuries shall be done him; what opinion has he of his fellow-subjects, when he rides armed; of his fellow citizens, when he locks his doors; and of his children, and servants, when he locks his chests. Does he not there as much as accuse mankind by his actions, as I do by my words?
—Thomas Hobbes, Leinathan
Sheets of rain slanted down from the night sky to spatter steam from the smoking remains of Richard's fire. He shivered in his blanket, wet to the bone. Water dripped through the soaked tarp he'd tied overhead.
His belly hurt where Trudeau had hit him. Dear Lord God, how low could a man sink? To be abused by brutes, tormented and cold, and somehow ashamed that he'd only been able to lie in the sand while Baptiste rescued him.
Trudeau wants to kill me.
Numb from the cold, Richard fingered the soggy fetish on his belt. Lightning flashed whitely in the sky, illuminating the slanted blanket shelters, shiny-wet against the backdrop of the dripping cottonwoods. Several seconds later, the bang of thunder hammered the air.
Richard closed his eyes. Why haven’t I run? I could have been back to Fort Atkinson by now. Or on my way to Saint Louis by pirogue or bateau.
But he hadn't taken any of the opportunities. Instead, he'd promised himse
lf it would be the next day, or the next, when he made his break, stole a horse, and galloped south.
"I'm a coward," he whispered, and wrung water from a twist of his blanket. Perhaps Laura did deserve Thomas Hanson more than him.
Trudeau. Damn Trudeau! If only he could have blocked that blow, given the boatman back measure for measure.
And degenerate into what? Another human beast like Trudeau?
"Coon?" Like some hunched night creature, Travis ducked out of the dark into the shelter. He grunted, pulling off his hat and wringing it out. "I reckon they's frogs what will drown in this."
"Go away."
"Ain't much of anywhere to go. Hell, even the hosses won't get stole in weather like this. River'll be up another couple of feet in the morning. Creeks is all flooded."
"Then maybe we'll be lucky and all drown."
"Yer not sounding so pert, coon. This beaver figgered ye'd be keen ter philos'phy me half ter death with yer Roossoo."
"He can drown, too—except he's already dead."
"How's yer gut?"
"Sore."
"It warn't yer fault. Fellers slip in the mud. Could'a been Trudeau as likely as ye."
"But it wasn't, Travis. Let's face it, I'm not fit for this. It's not my place. I should be back in Boston, working on the docks if nothing else. I had that chance once . . . Patrick Bonnisen was hiring." Damn you, Father. Maybe I should have taken him up. You'd appreciate that, wouldn't you? A son who worked as a dockhand?
Travis had seated himself cross-legged. A flash of lightning illuminated his terrible face, the scars water-slick. "I worked docks before. Men there is the same as Trudeau."
"How cheery. Something to look forward to when I get back to Boston."
"Don't have to be that way."
"Indeed? Perhaps you know something about my father that I don't? I'm a failure, Travis. All I wanted was to continue my studies, stay at the university. I lost my father's money, was kidnapped to this Hell, killed a boy . . . almost wrecked everything today. All I'll ever be is a failure."
Travis's face twisted. "Ye ain't no failure—lessen ye wants ter be."
"Oh?"
"Hell, coon, ye knows a sight more than old Travis. All them fellers ye talk about. Roossoo, Haggle, Kant. And a passel more I been hearing ye tell of."
"A great deal of good it does me here."
"Yep, wal, yer not seeing things with a skinned eye, coon. Willow's free of that rascal Packrat. I ain't wolfmeat 'cause ye sewed me up."
Richard pushed his wet hair back. "I didn't have any choice."
"Reckon ye did. What of all that free will yer so fond of spouting up?"
"Do I look free, Travis?"
"Yep."
Richard stared silently at the fire's steaming ashes. Rain pattered in the darkness, accented by louder spats of water falling from the trees. The smell of smoke carried from the half-drowned fires to mingle with the wet scents of trees, grass, and ground.
"Dick, a feller's only as free as he makes hisself. Ask Baptiste. Hell, ask me. I done been in a sight worse mess than yer in. On a brig in the middle of the ocean, ye can only dance the jig while the fiddler plays the tune."
"I'm not convinced."
"Lord God A'mighty, Dick, yer problem is that ye've got to thinking ye've all this high and mighty truth tucked away inside, but ye don't. I ain't read all them books. I don't know what them fellers said, but I know about living, and freedom, and going whar my stick floats. And that, coon, is why I'm a heap smarter than ye—and all yer book larning to boot."
"Aristotle would be pleased to hear that."
"I'll tell him next time I see his sorry arse. But tell me this: If'n a philos'pher's got all this truth, it sure otta stand up ter living, ottn't it? I don't know what's in them books, but I do know this: If'n ye've got all the laming in the world, it's poor bull ter fat cow if'n yer not willing ter be wrong. Ye might as well be a turtle as a man."
Richard studied Travis's dark silhouette. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying yer right. Yer a failure. And ye'll always be one unless yer a-willing ter look life straight in the eye. The way I figgers it, ye've growed up thinking it's all easy. Even yer philos'phy. Read a couple of books, and ye knows it all. No sweat and blood, no pain and misery. Wal, coon, philos'pher or not, yer gonna be a failure lessen ye stands up like a man. Maybe ye'11 get shot straight through the lights . . . and maybe ye won't. But ye'11 know yerself. And die like a man instead of a boy."
Lightning arced in the sky, flashing weird shadows over the sodden camp.
"Yer pretty damn silent fer once."
"I was just thinking of Socrates," Richard said uneasily.
"I knew a slave by that name once. On a plantation in South Carolina."
"A slave ... no, Travis. This is the real Socrates. A Greek philosopher who lived two thousand years ago."
"And he wrote one of these books?"
"No. But he taught the men who did. Any student of philosophy has heard his immortal teaching: 'The unexamined life is not worth living."'
"Did he get that out of a book?"
"No. As you would say, he stood up and looked life straight in the eye. He was an orator, and a soldier. When Athens went to war, he picked up his shield and sword and fought. When he encountered a wise man, he questioned him, regardless of the consequences. In the end, it cost him his life." Richard stroked the fetish. "You'd have liked him."
"Real cat-scratch scrapper, huh?"
"Yes." Richard took a deep breath. "So, what do I do?"
"Take life as she comes. Why, ye've an opportunity most men'd kill fer. Yer on the river, Dick. Headed fer the Shining Mountains. Stop trying ter see everything from outside, and see it from inside fer once."
What was it about Travis Hartman? Where did that fearless self-assurance come from?
The same place as Socrates the internal voice told him. From having tested the truths in the crucible of life.
"I've been a fool, Travis." He rubbed his stomach. "The lesson's a little painful, is all."
"Them's the best ones."
"I guess Trudeau was right to hit me."
"Nope. Warn't yer fault. Reckon that Frenchie's gonna be a thorn in everybody's butt lessen I take him down."
"Why you?"
"Running the men is my job."
"It's me he's after. . . and Willow."
"Yer not up ter Trudeau. He'll make wolfmeat outa ye."
"I could learn, couldn't I?"
"Might mean taking a couple of lumps, Dick."
Richard stared out into the night rain and swallowed hard as he made his decision. "Trade you."
"How's that."
"You teach me how to whip Trudeau, and I'll teach you how to read and write."
"I cain't larn that!"
"Painter crap, as you would say. Or. . . are you afraid of failing?"
Thunder blasted the night.
''I . . . uh . . . Me? Laming ter read?" Travis snorted in final defeat, then smiled. "Yer a damned Yankee bastard, Dick.''
Yes, but then, when it comes to being a damn bastard, I've had good teachers.
The experience was magical. Heals Like A Willow sat on the front of the cargo box and looked down over the bow of the boat. In the lee of the storm, the wind blew strongly from the south, and Maria's bulging sail drove her upriver.
Muddy water sparkled in the sunlight as the boat raced the waves upriver. The sensation of such movement lifted Willow's soul as if born on the wings of a mighty eagle. She couldn't see enough of the bank passing, of the wake left behind, or the current sliding under the pointed prow— and without muscles to do it! The boat seemed alive, a sentient being instead of a human creation.
And in that lay another puzzle. Did White men have the ability to create beings?
High overhead the last of the delicate clouds raced them northward, contrasting to the deep blue of the rain-fresh sky and the aching green of the trees and grass. So clean compared to the muddy river with i
ts flotsam.
Dave Green came to sit beside her, resplendent in a jade shirt and fawn-colored pants. His blond hair caught glints of golden sunlight, and his blue eyes sparkled. Eyes she still hadn't grown used to seeing; they simply shouldn't be that pale and curious-looking.
''A good day," Green told her, clasping his hands in his lap. "After yesterday, I can use a day like this. Sailing, by God. What a relief. But help me watch for floating logs. The banks will be washing out and toppling trees."
"The boat moves," she said. "Strong medicine."
"You've seen the wind push a leaf across a pond? Same thing, but bigger. I've come upriver many times, and the wind is always a chancy thing. I was starting to believe it had deserted us altogether."
Willow tucked a long strand of black hair behind her ear. "I never would have figgered such a thing."
Green's expression betrayed his delight with the day. "If we could have a couple of weeks of this, we could ride up to the Yellowstone in complete comfort.''
She glanced up at the curving sail. "Canvas," they called it. Such an incredibly strong and light fabric. Even the finest scraped buffalo hide could not match it for strength.
"You have many marvels, Green. I had heard the stories told by some of my people. I did not believe them." She touched the looking glass she wore on a thong around her neck.
"I hope all of your people share your enthusiasm." Green rubbed his hands together. "I've been thinking, Willow. This first year we'll set up at the mouth of the Big Horn. Trade with the Crows. If that goes well, maybe we'll move up the Big Horn, put a post in Snake country. Maybe around the Hot Spring."
She knew the place of which he spoke: Pagoshowener, Hot Water Stand. The huge hot springs where the Big River ran through the canyon in the Owl River Mountains.
"Why would you go there?"
"Your people could come to trade. They would have their own post, Willow. As it is, the Snakes must travel a great distance, through many enemies, to trade hides for white goods."
She shook her head slowly. "You call these things 'goods.' I am not sure they are good. Marvelous, yes. Good? That is a word I worry about. Ritshard and Trawis have taught me the word 'medicine.' " She made the hand sign for "Power." "Among my people, medicine can be good or bad. It depends on how people use it. A healer can use medicine for good. A sorcerer can use it to kill. These things you Whites would trade, they, too, have medicine. Tell me, Green, are they really all good?"
The Morning River Page 39