The Morning River

by W. Michael Gear

  "Sorry, coon. I figgered I'd take ye out afore ye fooled around and hurt me."

  "It's going to be a long afternoon on the back of that bony mare."

  Travis's face had resumed that flinty look. "Yep. Ain't nothing come free, hoss. Trail's never easy ter follow, and being a mite uncomfortable of an occasion makes a coon think a little clearer."

  "I'll remember that," Richard growled, as he eased himself onto the mare's back. But all he could remember was the look in Willow's soft eyes as she walked away that day.

  THIRTY

  Man being born, as has been proved, with a title to perfect freedom and uncontrolled enjoyment of all the rights and privileges of the law of nature, equally with any other man or number of men in the world, hath by nature a power, not only to preserve his property, that is, his life, liberty, and estate, against injuries and attempts of other men, but to judge of and punish the breaches of that law in others, as he is persuaded the offence deserves, even with death itself.

  —John Locke, Liberalism in Politics

  Baptiste led the way, trotting his horse ahead, rifle butt propped on his saddle. On the right, Travis rode with his Hawken across the saddle bows. With each movement of the horses, their long fringe swayed, beadwork glinted, and long hair danced in the wind. To Richard's eyes, they looked like barbarians crossing the flat floodplain. This was Ree country. From the time they'd crossed the Grand River, about five miles back, Travis and Baptiste had been increasingly worried. They'd ridden warily through the scrubby bur oak, green ash, and elms that fringed the base of the cedar-studded bluff that rose like a wall to the west. What a hot, sweltering day. The sun stood straight overhead, and through a faint tracery of high clouds, burned the sky white. Silvery mirages shimmered as heat waves played across the hot ground. Insects buzzed and the horses' feet swished through the brittle grass.

  "Ain't no telling about these hyar Rees," Travis warned. "Best check yer load."

  Richard did so, making sure the priming powder still filled the pan on his Hawken. Then asked, "Maybe you'd better tell me about the Arikara? Related to the Pawnee, correct?"

  "Uh-huh." Travis barely nodded. "Baptiste, hyar, he lived with 'em fer longer than this child. Hell, he talks then-talk, knows most of 'em fer the thieving souls they is."

  Baptiste shrugged, squinting around from under the brim of his black hat. "I don't cotton to them being thieves. Hell, they just been pushed too far, coon."

  "Pushed?" Richard asked.

  "They been on the river fer years." Baptiste waved back toward the south. "Remember all them old villages we seen? The houses has caved in and weeds has growed up, but you'll see them big round holes in the ground. Time was, they had more'n thirty villages stretching up from the Platte clear to the Mandans. Then the Missouri and Osage come. The Omaha and Sioux and Iowa. Sickness come, too. One by one, the Rees quit their villages, moved in with kin fer protection."

  "Why were the other Indians so mad at them?" Richard glanced around at the foreboding flats.

  "Injuns don't need ary a reason," Travis muttered. "They enjoy killing each other just fer the fun of it."

  Baptiste snorted irritably. "Man can't live without the itch to whack another man and take what's his'n. Don't make no matter. That's just the way men are. So the Rees come heah, to this part of the river. . . mostly 'cause the Omaha and Blackbird didn't want it. Look around. Not much wood grows here. Not like back south on the Platte, or up north in the Mandan lands. But the Rees hung on, fighting fer their lives against the Sioux and the others. Then the smallpox come. Blackbird died, and the Omaha didn't control the trade no more. The Sioux beat Hob outa the downriver tribes and the Rees figgered their day'd come."

  "Tell him about the chiefs." Travis tightened his grip on his sweat-stained Hawken.

  "Rees is different," Baptiste said as he scanned the brush. "They set right store by chiefs. Descended from Nes-anu ..."

  "Who?"

  "Nesanu. That's the Ree name fer God. Some Injuns out heah, Sioux, Cheyenne, Omaha, they picks a chief by what he says and does. Not the Rees or the Pawnee. If'n yer daddy be a chief, you'll be a chief, and yer son after that. Nobles, that's the word Lisa called 'em. It's passed through the family, and each village had a chief. Like a son from God. So they call their chiefs Nesanu, after God."

  "That doesn't sound so odd. People have been doing that in Europe for centuries." Richard wiped at the sweat that trickled over old mosquito bites. His horse shied and sidestepped nervously as a coiled rattlesnake buzzed at them.

  "Wal, coon, imagine thirty villages mixed inter just two. And each chief plumb equal with every other one. It's like having fifteen different captains in one boat. All they do is fight with each other. Hell, give a Ree chief a chance ter lift hair on a Sioux or another Ree chief, and sure as sun in the morning, he'll take that Ree's hair.''

  "That's lunacy!" Richard swatted at a fly that persisted in buzzing around.

  "Ter yer way of thinking," Travis agreed, "but it's plumb normal fer Ree."

  "Why did they attack Ashley?" Richard watched three buzzards spiraling on the hot air. A sign? Since his encounter with the wechashawakan, he'd begun to wonder about such things—much to the disgust of his rational side.

  "Trade. What else?" Baptiste cocked his head to glance at Richard. "In the beginning, Lewis and Clark come through and told 'em that the Americans was a-coming to trade. The Rees figgered it was their chance. Then the Americans started passing right on by, headed fer the Mandans and Hidatsas. Rees watched all them goods going upriver, and no letup in the Sioux attacks, and all that was left was being poor and dirty. Hell, the Sioux call the Rees their 'women,' 'cause the Rees plant the corn, tan the hides, and the Sioux come take 'em whenever they wants."

  "Don't matter," Travis replied. "Rees is cutthroats and thieves. A Ree brave will sell ye his woman, and cut yer throat as soon as yer pizzle's pumped dry."

  "So do Sioux," Baptiste shot back. "And Mandan, and Hidatsa, and Crow, and all the rest. So don't ye go on about—"

  "They don't cut yer throat the next instant!" Travis retorted hotly. His horse tossed its head and pranced wide around a patch of brush.

  "Wal, coon," Baptiste growled, "we'd best not be fighting over it. You've yor way of thinking, Fs got mine. I reckon we just ain't never gonna see eye to eye on Rees."

  "Reckon not," Travis groused, then gave Baptiste a sly grin. The two rode close enough to playfully box each other's shoulders.

  'Travis, why don't you like the Rees?" Richard asked.

  "Rees have wiped out too many good friends over the years. I reckon it fogs a feller's thinking about them red bastards."

  "Thar she be." Baptiste pointed across the flats.

  Through the glassy heat waves, Richard could see the village: several rounded houses on the dusty bluff that overlooked the river. The palisade still stood in places, charred black, and gaping like broken teeth.

  "Someone's thar!" Baptiste cried, pulling up his horse.

  Travis slowed his animal and slumped in the saddle, inspecting the flats with uneasy eyes before squinting at the distant remains of the Ree village.

  "Tarnation and brimstone," Travis growled. "I never did figger all them coons had hightailed after Leavenworth shot 'em up."

  Richard swallowed hard, realizing that these weed-filled flats had once been small cornfields. The ruined village, the desolate fields, the heat, all seemed nothing more than a pale reflection of Hell.

  "What now?" Richard asked. "Will they attack us?"

  Travis licked his lips, his gnarled thumb curling around the cock on his rifle. "Wal, coons, we got ter foller the river. The Maria's gonna make camp right about hyar, tonight. If'n there's ter be Ree trouble, we'd best find out."

  "You mean ride in there?" Richard glanced back and forth between the men.

  Baptiste flashed white teeth in a wide smile. "You figger since I lived with 'em, they might not shoot us right off?"

  "Crossed my mind, coon. What's in
yer noodle?"

  "Oh, I reckon they won't shoot me right off—leastways, not till they shoots you and Dick fust."

  "Yer sure sassy fer a black beaver/' Travis slapped his leg. "All right, let's ride easy. First sign of trouble, we break and run like Hell's jackrabbits fer the boat. Dave'll need all the warning he can get."

  Travis dropped back beside Richard, pointing at the ruined village. "During the Leavenworth fight, the chief hyar was called Little Soldier. About the time it looked like they was nigh ter getting wiped out, he come out under a flag of truce to talk. Told old Leavenworth that if the army'd hide him from the Sioux, he'd help destroy the village. Ye can't trust a Ree, Dick. Never fergit that."

  "He was trying to save his kin," Baptiste called back. "White folks don't always understand what kin can mean to a man."

  Travis said nothing in reply, but narrowed an eye.

  "The place looks deserted," Richard noted as they rode closer to the remains of the charred palisade.

  "Yep," Baptiste said, clipped. 'But I make it out to be right around ten lodges rebuilt."

  Richard studied the brown mounds Baptiste indicated. Looking closely, he could see a thin strand of blue smoke rising from within the village. Here and there, small plots of corn, beans, and squash were growing—but not very well. Dogs began to bark.

  "It ain't the whole tribe." Travis scowled. "I'd guess about fifty people."

  A bead of sweat crept down the side of Richard's head. A sinking feeling hollowed his gut, and his muscles tightened. His rifle's wrist was damp where he clutched it.

  One shot. Make it count. Remember, Travis saws you can always bluff with a loaded rifle. He nodded to himself, mouth gone dry as dust.

  "Hold up!" Baptiste raised a hand. "Somebody's a-coming."

  Through a gap in the palisade, a lone Indian man appeared. He wore nothing but a loincloth and short moccasins. In one hand he carried a pipe, in the other a rifle. Behind him, Richard could see heads bobbing as other Arikara took positions in the ditch behind the shattered palisade. Was that sunlight glinting off a rifle?

  The warrior walked bravely forward, head high, the sun shining on his blunt brown features. Wide-set eyes seemed to pop out from his face, giving him a frog look. His hair had been pulled into two long braids intertwined with buffalo hair and his forelocks curled back over his forehead. Stopping short, he called in passable English, "Who comes to the villages of the Arikara?"

  Baptiste smiled, urging his horse forward. "Big Yellow, by God! It's Baptiste, coon. With me's Travis Hartman and Dick Hamilton. Dave Green's coming up behind us with a boat."

  Big Yellow cocked his head, but no smile of greeting turned those hard lips. "Baptiste. Good to see you." And a string of Arikara talk followed, helped along by flourishes of the pipe in his right hand.

  "What did he say?" Richard demanded. Damn it all, he felt like a target sitting out here in the open. His skin crawled, as if waiting for the impact of a bullet.

  "Says he figured someone would come after the army come through hyar a couple of weeks back," Travis said from the side of his mouth. "Say's whites and Arikara are at peace, and he's got a paper from General Atkinson ter prove it."

  Baptiste had slipped off the side of his horse, walking forward to hug Big Yellow like a long-lost brother.

  Richard ran a nervous tongue along the edge of his front teeth. "You believe that?"

  Travis pulled at his beard, eyes squinted. "Yep. So long's Atkinson's upriver. .. and we're armed. Won't be no trouble, Dick. Not with Dave coming up ahind us. Reckon we're gonna be treated like kings whilst we're hyar."

  "Food's cooking," Baptiste called as he turned away from Big Yellow. "What do you think, Travis?"

  Hartman glanced warily at the heads watching from the broken and scorched palisade. "Reckon we'll palaver out hyar."

  Big Yellow shrugged, a weary expression on his broad face. "If you wish, Bear Man. Rees are at peace. I am Nes-anu. I have given my word."

  "And if they's another chief in thar?" Travis jerked his head toward the village. "He give his word, too?"

  "I am the only Nesanu at this place." Big Yellow offered up the pipe. "Ten lodges. All my people, Bear Man. No one will harm you." His smile seemed forced and weary. "Some of us have learned that no good will come of harming a White man. Some of us know that Leavenworth was foolish—but soldier-chief Atkinson is not."

  Travis pulled at his beard, and jerked a nod. "All right, hoss, but if n something goes wrong, I'll kill ye."

  Baptiste climbed into the saddle and rode toward the gap in the palisade. Travis lingered long enough to ask, "Want ter philosophy him fer a while?"

  Richard shook his head.

  "Best slip that fetish inside yer britches, coon," Travis warned. "And if n anybody asks about it, ye bought it down ter Saint Loowee, understand?"

  Richard turned the fetish on his belt and tucked it into his britches. "But, Travis, what do these people care about skunk hide?"

  Fat's in the fire now, Travis thought as he passed through the palisade gap.

  The Ree village lay in shambles. Here and there, Travis could see the scars left by Leavenworth's cannon. As the army retreated, two of Pilchefs men—or maybe it was the Sioux—had sneaked back and set fire to the village. Big Yellow and his people had salvaged some timbers, and snagged others from the river to rebuild a few of the large round houses. Each measured about forty feet across and perhaps ten feet high at the top of the earthen dome. Around them lay the collapsed wreckage of much larger homes, some sixty feet across.

  In silence, men, women, and children watched them, and their simmering anger carried to him like a carrion breeze. He could see it in their hard brown eyes, the hands clenching bows, old trade rifles, and war clubs. In their wake, people closed in behind them. Unlike the old days, the Rees wore tattered clothing: frayed, sun-bleached fabric; leather worn full of holes and missing fringe; and scanty hanks of beads. The pitiful garments seemed to hang on their bony flesh. But the hollow-eyed look of the children bored into his very soul.

  No way out but to shoot our way. Travis's gut churned as he glanced back at the Arikara, who followed like a silent army. This was a damn fool idea. But up ahead, Baptiste rode unconcerned, talking easily with Big Yellow.

  The place smelled. Old curled hides—once the coverings for bull boats—had hardened in the sun. Broken pots lay scattered about, including cracked iron and copper kettles. Scaffolding for meat racks had been rebuilt, but from driftwood that looked rickety. Piles of horse manure were drying in the sun, no doubt to be scooped up and thrown into the ever hungry cookfires as soon as they cured. Old storage pits lay open, sides crumbled, ready to trap the unwary passer-by in their yawning depths.

  "This place is huge," Richard cried, staring at a big house that had somehow remained standing. The long doorway gaped like a black socket.

  'This is the little village. Big one is a rifle shot up ahead." Travis tried to calm his horse as a pack of village dogs charged out to nip at the hocks.

  "It looks pretty dismal," Richard said sadly. "My God, how dirty they are."

  "Comes of making war on whites, coon."

  "Travis, what Baptiste said? Is that true? That they were just trying to save themselves?"

  "Depends on how ye read sign. They's other ways of saving yerself than killing traders."

  They'd pulled up before one of the lodges and Travis reluctantly dismounted. A sunshade of poles and woven cattail matting cast a little square of shade. Big Yellow gestured, shouting orders, and a gaunt woman hustled from the throng, ducked into the long entry, and emerged a moment later carrying a buffalo hide. This she spread on the ground under the sunshade.

  Travis slapped at a fly that buzzed around his nose. The whole place was curiously silent. How different from the days when Lisa's boats had arrived here. Then the crowds had thronged about the boats; feasting, dancing, and laying in the robes had followed. In those days, like kings of old, the traders had been carried up from th
e river in buffalo robes born by muscular warriors.

  Travis kept his reins in his hand, noting that Richard had learned his lesson—he kept his animal between him and the gathered Rees.

  At a gesture from Big Yellow, three boys came to claim the horses. "Don't take them out of sight," Travis told them in Arikara.

  The skin on his back was crawling as he motioned to Richard, and took a place on the buffalo robe in the shade. Tarnal Hell, a coon could be shot in the back so easily. All a warrior had to do was sneak around the side of the lodge, level his rifle, and she'd be Katy bar the door.

  Cattail leaves rattled in the hot breeze, the sound like dry bones clacking. At the same time the rest of the Rees closed in, seating themselves in the hot sun. For all the expression they showed, those brown faces could have been modeled of clay.

  Big Yellow filled his pipe, lit it with an ember brought by a young man, and chanted the blessing to Nesanuto Atna t the Corn Mother; and finally to Grandfather Stone. The pipe was offered to the northeast, southeast, southwest, and northwest, the four sacred directions of the Arikara.

  Baptiste puffed, and offered the pipe to the directions. His brown eyes had softened as he stared out at the crowd. Then Travis took the pipe, drawing the bittersweet tobacco into his lungs. To his satisfaction, Richard copied every move correctly.

  "It is good," Big Yellow began, "to have traders in my village again. Our two peoples have had bad times. Let us have no more." He made a wiping-out gesture with the flat of his hand. 'The time for war between us is past."

  "There has been trouble," Baptiste agreed. "Big Yellow speaks the truth. We have come upriver with peace in our hearts. We wish nothing more than to pass in peace."

  Big Yellow sat thoughtfully, pulling on one of his braids. He looked around at the people squatting in the sun, their empty brown eyes fixed on him. "My people need many of the things the White traders carry. We have no powder for our guns. No bullets to shoot. We are few now. The village Medicine Bundles have been carried away to the four winds. The Doctors' societies are all scattered everywhere. The White man has come like a great wind, one that has broken Mother Corn, who we also know as the sacred cedar— snapped her off clean. On every side, my people are surrounded by enemies. The Sioux come and take what they wish. If we raise a hand in protest, they kill us. We cannot stop them."