The Morning River

by W. Michael Gear

  ''White women," she said sourly.

  He chuckled uneasily. "Yes, white women." Then his brow lined. "Oh, someday I'll have to marry, I suppose. Father always expected it of me. Later, you understand, after I'd proven myself, I'd be quite a catch, rich, capable of providing a good home. A friend of mine has a sister. A very attractive young lady."

  "And this lady will be pretty ... in her house . . . and admired?"

  "Yes. Just that." He studied her pensively. "I could do a lot worse. Laura is a very charming girl."

  Willow watched him. "Is that what you want, Ritshard? Charming? Or do you want Power, and truth, and all the pain it brings?''

  He shrugged, looking away into the night so that she couldn't read his expression.

  Willow dished out a bowl of stew and handed it to Ritshard before tilling her own. She was becoming proficient in the use of the little metal spoon. Why did her fingers suddenly seem so clumsy?

  She said, "My father was disappointed that I married a Ku'chendikani. I think he wanted me to stay with the Du-kurika. But when I made my choice, he smiled and wished me well."

  "How lucky you were." Richard blew to cool the stew. "By the time I return, Laura will no doubt be married to that irritating Tom Hanson, and I’ll probably end up with some blithering shrew who faints all the time."

  "I don't know all those words."

  He waved it away as inconsequential.

  ''I think you have been lonely all of your life, Ritshard. It should not always be so."

  "Maybe not, but in Boston there aren't many women like ..." He glanced away, swallowing hard.

  "Like me?" Her souls began to stir uneasily, like snakes twining around each other.

  He started to nod, then shook himself. "Some things, Willow..."

  She waited "What is it, Ritshard?"

  "Oh, life, the way people are. God, what a sorry mess we are! I think your people are a lot smarter than mine."

  "People should be who they are."

  He kept sneaking glances at her.

  ''Ritshard, your eyes have changed. Now, you look at me as a man looks at a woman."

  He glanced down at his empty bowl. "I'm sorry."

  ''You do not have to be sorry."

  "A gentleman does not look at a lady that way."

  She bent down, staring into his eyes again. "I am not White, Ritshard. I am Heals Like A Willow, a Dukurika woman. I am not a lady."

  His lips parted as he reached up to touch the side of her face. "Lord God, what you just said. If you only knew how I . . ." Then he shook his head. Rising to his feet, he said, "Thank you for supper, Willow. Travis needs me. I.. . I've got to go." And he hurried away into the darkness.

  Willow took a deep breath to settle her writhing souls, and exhaled wearily. In silence, she watched the fire burn down to glowing red coals.

  "You been quiet all day," Baptiste noted. "Got the Injun shivers?"

  "No." Richard shook his head as he led the string of horses. He'd had an odd dream the night before, as if he'd floated over the land, draped in a misty white. He'd been seeking something, unable to find it in the mist. And there at the end, he'd felt someone watching, eyes staring at him out of the mist.

  The whole day had been eerie. Walking along with Baptiste, he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling. Maybe Baptiste was right, and it was nothing more than a case of Sioux-induced nerves.

  The abandoned Ankara village they'd passed that morning hadn't helped matters, either. The place consisted of nothing but big round depressions, as if God's finger had dimpled the fiats. Timbers stuck out here and there, most of them charred and splintered. A thick carpet of grass had already reclaimed the town, but an occasional broken piece of clay pot, a scattering of burned bone and beads, could be found. Open storage pits were a hazard for man and beast.

  Something about the old Ree town depressed the spirit and dampened any optimism the morning might have had. Who had those people been? Once, children had played and chased among the domed houses. Men and women had smiled at each other, and built bright futures out oi dreams.

  The most unsettling sight for Richard had been the skull. Baptiste pointed out where a coyote had dug out a den in the side of a low earthen mound. Just inside the hole, half lodged in the soil, the skull had lain watching with dirt-filled eye sockets.

  To avoid his thoughts, he pointed at the engages. "I cant believe the change in them."

  The men struggled along the bank, dodging around cot-tonwoods that hung out over the water. Instead of gay songs, jokes, and good humor, they labored in silence, as if doom hung over their bobbing heads instead of the bright late-spring sky.

  "They's worried 'bout Sioux," Baptiste told him. They walked along, feet swishing the new grass. The horses followed reluctantly on their lead ropes; they wound their way around the gray boles of cottonwoods, and paused only long enough to crop a mouthful of grass.

  Richard and Baptiste paralleled the bank, staying close to the sweating men on the cordelle. Baptiste's gaze never rested as he scanned the grassy bottoms, the branches overhead, the tangles of deadfall and driftwood.

  But what an odd dream. Not in his wildest imagination had he ever been a cloud before. And what had he been looking for?

  What have I always been looking for? Truth, ultimate reality, an understanding of myself and the world around me.

  "Want to talk about it?" Baptiste asked suddenly. "If'n you got a sense of something, you tell ol* Baptiste. In this country, a feller best heed his hunches."

  "It's nothing. Honest. Just a dream I had last night."

  "You wasn't scalped and dead, was you?"

  "No. Nothing like that." And Richard laughed to relax. "Oh, all right. I dreamed I was a cloud."

  Baptiste grunted, and renewed his wary inspection of the quiet trees around them.

  Richard tightened his grip on the Hawken, reassured by the slim rifle's weight. He'd loaded it the night before, careful not to spill a single grain of powder. He could still feel the ramrod pushing the half-inch ball down the smooth rifling, seating it against the powder. Knowing his life might depend on it, he'd taken special care with that load.

  He cast another glance at the engages. "It doesn't make sense. I've seen them skip from log to log across a flooded embarras. I mean, the slightest misstep, and they'd fall into the torrent, be swept away before anyone could lend a hand. And they do it singing!"

  "French is curious coons," Baptiste said with a shrug. "Way I figgers it, men got different fears. These French . . . maybe it's something Catholic, about being scalped and cut up. Killed in blood. I ain't Catholic, so I don't know. But a boatman, he don't scare a hair over bad water that shivers my bones. Hunt up Injun sign, though, and he plum turns to quivers."

  "They didn't seem so nervous when we crossed Osage, Kansa, and Maha country."

  "Them's tame Injuns." Baptiste pulled his big black hat off and wiped a sleeve across his sweaty forehead.

  "Tame?"

  "I tell ye, Dick, I been out heah nigh onta fourteen years now. River's changing, and it's white men what's doing it. Tame means broke, hear?"

  "How's that?"

  "Missouri, Oto, Omaha . . . they used to rule the river. Remember Blackbird? That Omaha chief buried up on the mountain? Why, he's like most was. These Injuns, they get their time with the coming of the whites. But it don't last. Think back. How many Injuns did you see on the way up-river? Reckon not more than a handful—and them in rags. Just like that drunk Omaha selling his squaw. The rest was all out tthe spring huffier hunt. Used to be they'd hunt buffler within a couple of days' ride of the village. Now they be gone fo' months. Buffler's plumb scarce on the lower river, hoss. But so's the Injuns. I heard tales of the Kansa—the Wind People, they called themselves. Them and the Missouri, they controlled the lower river a while back. They's just a handful now."

  "Why? The constant war?"

  Baptiste squinted, a bitter twist on his lips. "Maybe. But I figger it's more. It's white men. They's like a
plague rolling slow across the land. Like them locusts in Egypt. Look back, Dick. Ain't nothing atwixt us and the frontier but a dead zone—just like that village we passed this morning— and it's filling with whites. Farmers, you know. The great tribes, the Oto, Ioway, the Big Osages, the Mahas . . . hell, they ain't shit now. Disease kilt most ot 'em. Why, 1 seen piles of bodies after that pox come through. Whole villages left standing empty—and nothing but dead bodies a-laying where they fell. Biblical, I tell ye. Plumb biblical."

  "You make it sound like the Apocalypse."

  "Reckon you and I, we got different ideas about white folks."

  "How's that?"

  "You ain't never been no slave."

  Richard considered as he scanned the country for lurking Sioux thieves. 44 Not all white people are bad. I told you about the abolitionists. Some of us believe that all men have the same potential."

  "In Boston."

  "Yes."

  "Wal, Dick, I tell ye, that ain't normal fo' white folks. Most of 'em take, and take some more. Them farmers down to Saint Loowee? I don't go there. They look at me and they sees a nigger, a man what otta be a slave. Hell, them coons live in them dinky log huts, scratching in the dirt, living in it. They don't know nothing but what's in their Bibles— if'n they can even read at all. And they looks down on me. Me, what's seen the Shining Mountains, taken a plew, and sat side by side with warriors. Them's yor white folks, Dick."

  "But here you are, partnered up with white folks."

  "Yep, but this is the wilderness. That's a heap different. Men be free heah. Larn this, Dick. Out heah, it's what you do, how you act, that gets you judged. Ain't no color of yor skin that counts a damn when the Rees come a-fogging down on you, or the cordelle breaks. Yes, sir, it's what's in a man's soul that makes him poor bull or fat beaver out heah."

  Baptiste threw his head back, broad nostrils flared as if scenting the winds of freedom. "Won't last, though. Them farmers, they gonna come and kill all this land. You'll see. But afore that, this coon's gonna be gone under. That's some, it is. I reckon I'll go as a warrior. Proud. This child's gonna die like a man."

  Richard walked wide around a pile of debris left by a long-past flood. He peered intently into the tangle of logs, branches, and old brush, seeking any sign of a lurking Sioux.

  "Yor a-larning," Baptiste said with a smile. "Come cat scratch, a feller can hole up in a pile of junk like that. Old John Colter, he hid under a mess of embarras that time the Blackfoot cornered him. Always look to the holes come tough times. They can shore 'nuff save yor life."

  Richard licked his lips. "But getting back to what you were saying. Whites don't ruin everything."

  "Huh! Yor a white man what can go where you wants, do what you wants. Try 'er as a black man, or an Injun. White folk make things plumb shining fo' other white folk. But they sure as hell ruin everything fo' everyone else."

  "That's not so. They bring civilization—" The words stuck in his throat.

  "You was saying?"

  Everything he'd said to Charles Eckhart on the journey down the Ohio came back to haunt him. Those bitter tights with his father about commerce defeating the higher callings of man, were they just words? The silly ideas of a spoiled young man living in the land of plenty? "I was about to argue against everything I've come to believe about civilization."

  Baptiste seemed not to hear as he continued, "I'll tell you about yor civilization. It's built on the ruin of others. I had me a squaw one winter. Shawnee, she was. Died of fever that next spring. She's the last of her family—a cousin to Tecumseh and the Prophet. Rest of her kin was killed of smallpox, or shot dead by white soldiers."

  Baptiste gripped his rifle in emphasis. 'The Shawnee, they owned that whole Ohio country, boy. And now, they ain't but memories. I tell you, it'll be the same hear real soon. Nothing but memories of the Injuns . . . and farms as far as the eye can see. Nothing free then, not even the birds in the sky."

  "And the Sioux? You think we'll destroy them, too?"

  "Yep. And the Rees, Arapaho, and Blackfeet. Them and all the rest. Even the Mandan. Hell, probably the Mandan first. They likes white men. White man always ruins his friends fust."

  "What do Travis and Green say when you talk like that?"

  "Travis, he agrees. Reckon Green does, too. They just figger a feller's gotta make what he can. You come cross country from yor Boston, what did you see? White folks everywhere. How're you gonna stop 'em, Dick? Spout a little philos'phy to them farmers? Whar they gonna go? Back to Virginia, maybe back to yor Boston? Ain't no room fo' 'em all.

  "Naw, Dick, it's just the way things is. That said, all a coon can do is make his way whilst he can. That's what this beaver's a-doing. Anything else is like trying to stop the wind."

  They'd reached a place where the Missouri curved out in a wide loop. Maria had pulled over to the shore, the engages hauling in the long cordelle and coiling it on the deck before breaking out the poles. Richard could see Willow sitting cross-legged on the cargo box. She held her bow in one hand. Even from here she looked regal. Perhaps it was the way she held her head, proud and high.

  "We'll slip across this neck"—Baptiste pointed—"and meet 'em when they comes around t'other side."

  "You know, it would be a lot shorter trip if the river ran straight."

  Baptiste gave him a grin. "Yep, but like I told ye, it's just the way things is."

  "Do you think we'll make Wah-Menitu's village by dark?"

  "Reckon. Old Travis, he'll have scouted the whole way."

  "Think he's all right? Going up ahead like he did?"

  "That coon could sneak up on old Hob hisself. If'n thar be an ambush up ahead, Travis'll sniff her out. He's hell on Injun sign, that coon is."

  "What if it comes to a fight? What do I do?"

  "Don't shoot till the last." Baptiste plodded ahead after making sure the horses were following. "You got one shot in that Hawken. Injuns generally don't charge lessen they knows they can take you. Why, I've seen one man hold off thirty Injuns with a loaded rifle. A band of warriors knows that whoever makes the first play, he's gonna get shot. I tell you, it settles a man's blood to stare down a rifle barrel."

  Remembering the gaping maw of Green's pistol, Richard could agree.

  "That's the secret—and it ain't no sure thing. Keep that shot till you needs 'er. That's the only thing a man's got going fo' him when he's outnumbered. The Injuns might know they can kill you, but yor taking more of them rascals with you than they're getting. If Injuns figger they'll get one scalp to the loss of three, most times they'll back off."

  What would Kant or Hegel make of that? Richard shook his head. "I hope I never have to find out."

  As the sun slanted into the western sky, the Maria rounded yet another of the river's oxbows, and Travis walked out onto the riverbank to watch them approach. A number of Sioux warriors stepped out of the trees to stand behind him.

  Richard and Baptiste checked the lead ropes one last time to ensure that none of the stock were loose. The horses approached the waiting men with pricked ears.

  Richard swallowed hard, sweaty hand tightening on the rifle. Nothing in the world could have reassured him like the feel of that hard wood and steel. He yearned for his father's pistol—the one he'd so foolishly left behind in that other world. What a reassurance it would be. In that instance, at least, his father had been right.

  Travis leaned on his rifle, a huge smile twisting the scars on his face. 4 'About time ye coons made her this far. Right up round the bend hyar, thar be a good place ter camp. Little creek runs out along a grassy flat. Dick, reckon you and Baptiste can make a picket fer the hosses."

  "How far to Wah-Menitu's village?" Baptiste asked before striding forward to shake hands with the grinning warriors.

  " 'Bout a half mile. They's camped up on the bench above the river where the breeze keeps the skeeters off."

  Richard forced a smile and ceremoniously shook hands with each of the warriors. They looked fierce enough— keen-
eyed, with faces that could have been carved of dark walnut. Streaks of yellow, red, and black paint decorated cheeks and foreheads. Several had feathers stuck lopsided in greased hair. A small leather pouch—sometimes beaded or covered with quillwork—was suspended from each neck. Brightly painted bags with long fringe and beadwork hung from breechclouts. Fringed moccasins and colored blankets made up the rest of their apparel. Each carried a bow, a war club, or a trade gun. The latter exhibited polished brass tacks driven into the stocks in geometric patterns.

  Maria had come into sight, the engages poling her nervously onward. Trudeau shouted at those on cordelle to keep them moving. Green waved from his place on the cargo box beside Henri. Willow was conspicuously absent. Inside the boat, no doubt.

  Travis led the way toward the campsite, walking in the midst of the warriors. He talked with the Sioux, hands making signs despite the rifle he carried. To Richard's eyes, it looked like the reunion of long-lost friends.

  Richard started at a rustling in the grass to his left. There, hidden so carefully, lay two young boys, big-eyed and excited at having sneaked so close to the White men.

  Richard nodded at them. One gasped, while the other leapt to his feet and charged off, only to be outrun by his frightened companion.

  "Kids is kids anywhere," Baptiste noted with a shake of the head.

  More Sioux, Wah-Menitu in the forefront, waited silently in the clearing Travis had chosen for their camp. What thoughts were passing behind those black eyes? Richard could see women standing behind the men at the edge of the fringe of trees.

  Travis stopped and spread his hands wide, shouting in Sioux. Wah-Menitu barked out an answer, and lifted his pipe. The Sioux surged forward.

  "What do I do now?" Richard whispered. His nerves tightened.

  "Smile and act glad ta see 'em." Baptiste grinned like it was a birthday.

  Richard met grin with grin, bobbing his head, enduring the hugs and cries of amazement as fingers felt his fetish. The horses stamped and shied until it was all Richard could do to hold his string.