At night they slept out; in these warm days of late summer, there was no need to erect a lodge unless bad weather threatened, which it never did. At that time Skye would settle beside her in the robes, never forgetting to catch her hand and hold it or to draw her tight for a little while, his love unspoken but profound. Jawbone stood over them like some demented sentinel, letting no one close, not even the People.
They crossed the mighty Yellowstone at a place where the water ripped over gravel, and even the channel was hardly more than ankle deep this time of year. The travois poles dug trenches in the river bottom, but the stream never reached up to the heavy loads securely tied to the poles with thong or braided elkhide ropes.
Skye rarely spoke to her in these times, when his duty was to protect the People day and night. Oddly, she missed his company even though she was surrounded by chattering friends, young mothers with children to look after, boys playing tricks or showing off writhing garter snakes. Secretly, she wished she could ride beside Skye in the vanguard far ahead, before the great caravan had sent every bird winging away, and every rabbit and fox diving for cover.
For three days they passed through starkly arid land, a small desert caught in the rain-shadow of the mighty Beartooth Range to the west, a part of the great Absaroka Mountains named after her own people, but then the majestic mountains seemed to pull back, and they descended into grasslands, and finally into the valley of the Shoshone River. This was still an arid country, but not far upstream the river tumbled out of the noble mountains, and there, in a lush green valley surrounded by timbered slopes, the Absarokas and Shoshones would have their annual rendezvous.
It was easy to see from the marks of exodus that Chief Washakie’s Shoshones had arrived ahead of the Absarokas. That only made the trip more exciting. It had been a safe and blessed journey; no child had drowned, no horse had fallen or broken a leg; no thieves had filtered through the night to steal the wealth of her people, whose abundant horse herds were legend among a dozen envious neighboring peoples.
Now she saw her spirit helper, the Magpie, dancing from limb to limb in the riverside cottonwoods. Many Quill Woman had long ago dreamed the vision dream and found this big, raucous, bold bird, white and iridescent black, her helper and guide. She always knew when she saw her friend the Magpie that times would be good or that help was present if times were not good. But now times were good, and here was a whole flock of her birds making loud protest against this invasion. The magpies were like her people, bold and noisy and sometimes reckless, just for the fun of living close to danger.
They paused close to the campground, taking time to don their headdresses, gaud themselves and their ponies with paint, and prepare for a grand entry, in which the Shoshones would howl their delight and cheer the People as they paraded home.
Only Skye did not get into finery. He always wore whatever finery he possessed, which was simply his black top hat and a handsome bear-claw necklace over his chest. And yet, for reasons Many Quill Woman could not fathom, whenever the Absarokas were all dressed in their best it was Skye, on his spirit horse, who always drew the most attention, and those who admired him the most were the ladies. She sighed. Skye was unaware of what great waves and ripples he caused among the women of the northern plains. He only had eyes for her.
three
With a whoop the Crows paraded onto the meadow, joyously greeted by the Shoshones. Skye enjoyed the parade. A great column of Victoria’s people, all dressed in their finery, wended past the Shoshones. The women flaunted their beaded and quilled doeskin dresses and had gaudy ribbons tied in their braids. The warriors paraded their war honors, their rifles and bows, their colorful lances with a feather for each coup. The chiefs and headmen wore their bonnets, which glowed in the afternoon sun.
Children raced on foot beside the column, the boys in breechclouts, if anything, and the girls in little skirts. The Shoshone hosts were just as brightly gauded for a celebration, all smiles as the allied peoples greeted one another. This would be a festive time, a time of horse races, contests of strength and skill at arms, the exchange of mighty gifts, and also a time when the headmen from both tribes would gather together, smoke, summon the spirits, and cement the old alliance.
Skye spotted the young and noted chief of the eastern Shoshones, Washakie, standing before his great lodge awaiting the arrivals. His gaze was less festive; it was one that assessed the military strength of these allies, the coup sticks, the lances, the number of rifles or muskets, the number of youths who were ready to fight.
Skye had not met Washakie and was eager to do so. The man had grievances against the horde of Yanks flowing along the Oregon Road to the south, but so far had contained his restless people and had chosen diplomacy instead. But the whites neither heeded Washakie nor were his people compensated for the loss of game, grass, and firewood. Even less were they compensated for insults, wounds, shots fired at the Shoshones, and the fouling of watering holes. Skye thought he might add disease to that long, hard list; the Yanks brought all manner of plagues westward upon vulnerable native peoples.
The Shoshones had raised their lodges along the western edge of the verdant meadow here, close to firewood and out of the wind; they had left the center open, knowing the Absarokas would camp on the eastern side, also close to dense forest with an abundance of deadwood in it for fires. The open meadows in the middle would soon harbor dances and drumming, bonfires and feasts, games of skill, races, and a great marketplace where the women, in particular, traded with one another.
There were few Shoshone speakers among Victoria’s people, and few Absaroka speakers among Washakie’s, yet the peoples got along with a sort of lingua franca, some sign language, and some good guesswork.
Then Skye spotted something else: a white man’s wall tent, a wagon, some draft horses, and several white men. Were they traders? Skye, instantly curious, could find no evidence of it; no array of gaudy goods laid out, no shining axes and rifles, no virgin blankets or stacks of pots or cotton sacks filled with beans or coffee or sugar.
He would know soon enough. For now, there were formalities. The Absaroka headmen paused before Washakie, whose own headmen had clustered around them, and there were greetings. The Big Robber, chief of all the Kicked-in-the-Bellies, descended from his pony, embraced Washakie, and then greeted each of the Shoshone leaders. Skye dismounted and did the same, knowing they were as curious about him as he was about them.
For the time being the white men stood discreetly aside, aware that they needed to heed the protocols of this moment. Two appeared to be bearded teamsters or servants; the third, dressed in polished brown boots, a white shirt with a gaudy red silk scarf at the neck, a gray tweed jacket with leather arm patches, and a black, wide-brimmed felt hat, watched cheerfully.
The wagon intrigued Skye. It was well made, sturdy, and light. It was drawn, apparently, by the two homely Belgians, Skye thought, grazing quietly close to the wall tent.
Red Turkey Wattle always selected the exact campsite because his visions offered protection against disease and disaster. Now the old shaman led the parade to a sheltered strand, slightly higher than the rest of the meadow, where the soil was sandy and a rain would vanish into the porous ground. Here he paused, nodded to the four winds, lifted his arms, and then the Crows swiftly erected their camp.
Skye let Victoria select the spot for his lodge. Whenever he interfered, she glared at him, as she was doing now. She would brook no meddling from a white man when it came to something so sacred as a campsite. He knew better than to help her, and indeed her fierce glances were intended to ward him off. Sometimes when they were off alone, she welcomed his help; they would share the toil of making camp, cooking, keeping warm. But when they were among her people, everything was different.
He slid off Jawbone, feeling the ache in his legs as he landed on the meadow. He wasn’t so young now that he could leap on and off horses without pain. Jawbone would graze here; the village herders were afraid of him because he’d
whirl and kick at them if they approached, so the ugly horse was given leave to wander the village, poke his snout into lodges, and generally offend as many ancients as he could. Sometimes an old warrior, wizened and angry, would threaten to slash Jawbone’s throat, but the whole band knew the horse had great medicine, and the old shaman, Red Turkey Wattle, had said that this was the greatest of all horses and must be honored. And no one ever disputed the wisdom of the grand old man.
Skye unsaddled Jawbone and curried him with a bristle brush, while Jawbone shivered and snapped his big yellow teeth and threatened murder.
“Cut it out,” Skye muttered.
Jawbone responded by plowing his snout into Skye’s belly, a moment of bonding, and then trotted off, snatching at green grass whenever his hunger overcame his curiosity. The blue roan never drifted more than a hundred yards or so from Skye.
Even as Skye busied himself, Victoria wrapped four lodgepoles with thong and erected a pyramid with great skill. Then she laid the remaining poles into the niches, and spread robes over the floor of the lodge. Later, she and the neighboring ladies would help each other to draw the lodge covers upward and pin them in place with green willow sticks poked through eyelets, like buttons.
Skye stretched. This was a glorious late-summer afternoon, not too hot, and the nights promised to be deliciously cool. He lifted the old top hat to let the zephyrs flow through his graying hair, and then began a cheerful tour of the camp. It wasn’t that he was looking for another wife, exactly, but somehow his prospects were bleak. Not Missus Crow Dog, no, married and fat and happy. No, not Missus Black Bear, skinny and nervous and unhappy and hard on her little boys. No, not lithe Beaver Nose, youngest child of old Walks to the Sun; too young, too giggly, too … Skye suddenly felt he was not decorous, and recovered his dignity and paced on.
This marriage proposition was not easy. You didn’t just up and marry the first nubile lady you saw. At least not if you were a born and bred Londoner. You needed to be a little choosy.
He meandered past Missus Sheep Horns, who was pulling up the lodge cover, along with her friend Missus Black Wolf. Skye knew all about Missus Sheep Horns, who was not satisfied with her husband and was a great flirt. Once, during a war season when the village needed constant protection from the Sioux, Skye was doing picket duty, mostly by watching the countryside from a sun-warmed ridge, when she appeared, smiled, sat down beside him, and made her intentions clear at once. He demurred, having only eyes for Victoria, but not without a struggle. She was a most attractive lady. “Missus Sheep Horns,” he had said. “I must keep an eye out for the Sioux.”
She had taken offense, got her revenge by telling every woman in sight that Skye wasn’t much of a man. That got back to Victoria, who reported it to Skye, who tried to ignore it but couldn’t, and never quite lived it down.
That was Crow sport. Trysts were as common as eating a supper. Divorces were the daily entertainment. Which, come to think of it, was reason enough not to marry a Crow woman. He laughed at himself: all he needed to do was join the fun and quit worrying, and everything would be quite fine, and he might have twenty wives, severally and serially, before he departed from this world. Why was he so reluctant?
Romantic, that’s what he was. Damned romantic.
Still, the notion that he might find a Shoshone woman swelled up in his head, though he hadn’t considered it because he couldn’t talk their tongue. But love has its own language and maybe they didn’t need to talk. A few smiles would do.
Yonder, across the meadow, there might be a hundred eligible ladies of the Shoshone persuasion. And what better time to go courting than during this great summer festival, this moment of amity between tribes, this period of fun and races and contests?
He saw The Big Robber’s women erecting the chief’s lodge, but the chief was already padding across the meadow to pay his respects to Washakie. Fires were blooming, pine smoke drifted on the breeze. Tonight there would be the first of many feasts, and maybe some dancing and drumming too. Who knows? These things happened almost unplanned, in some mysterious fashion that Skye never understood.
Then he found himself drifting toward the wagon and the white men. Curiosity drove him; that, more than wife-hunting, was much on his mind. These gents were a long way from anywhere; far from the road to Oregon; far from the river road along the Missouri. Far from any known wagon trail.
He headed that way, at once discovering that they kept an orderly camp. The light wagon was obviously in good repair even though they had crossed rivers and gulches with it, roped it down steep slopes, cleared trails for it through brush and trees. For no ordinary wagon could get here; Skye could scarcely imagine how they managed it, or to what purpose.
The gents were lounging in canvas camp chairs. One stood when Skye arrived, the obvious owner of this outfit, nattily dressed, his face chiseled, his blue eyes bright, his smile genuine.
“Ah, you’re Mister Skye,” the man said.
It no longer surprised Skye that his name was known even in remote corners. The man continued. “It’s a pleasure, sir. I’m Graves Duplessis Mercer, at your service.”
A three-piece name. A rich man. But why?
four
And some familiar tones in the man’s voice.
“Are you British?” Skye asked.
“My father was a captain in the Royal Marines; my mother a Frenchwoman. I grew up in Paris and know France better than my home country. I live in London.
And you, Mister Skye, are a Londoner, I’ve heard.”
“Long ago,” Skye said. He wondered for a moment whether to reveal more to this son of a naval officer. And decided to put it all before them: “I was a pressed seaman and jumped ship at Fort Vancouver in 1826.”
Mercer laughed heartily. “I would have too. Having volunteered for His Majesty’s service by press gang, you decided to volunteer your resignation!”
Skye smiled. Maybe the bloke wasn’t going to be a pain in the butt after all.
“I’ve heard a little about you; in fact, Mister Skye, I’ve been making inquiries. Now, take that Mister that prefixes your name. The story I have is that you require it. Is that the case?”
“It is, sir.”
“And why is that?”
“In England, a man without a Mister before his name is a man beneath notice. I ask to be addressed as Mister here in North America, where a man can advance on his merits.”
“A capital answer, Mister Skye. I should introduce you to my assistants, Mister Corporal, and Mister Winding. Floyd Corporal and Silas Winding. They’re teamsters and hunters from Missouri and both have guided wagon trains out to Oregon, and know the ropes.”
Skye shook hands with both. Winding, in particular, interested him. Beneath that gray slouch hat was a pair of wary hazel eyes set in a face weathered to the color of a roasted chestnut. The man looked entirely capable of dealing with wilderness, and indeed, this pair had somehow gotten a wagon and its gold-colored horses through streams, across gulches, over boulders, up precipices, around brush and cactus and forest, to this remote Eden.
“Never been called a Mister before,” Winding said.
“Well, Mister Skye here has set a good precedent,” Mercer replied. “I’ll follow suit! From now on, you’re Mister Winding, if you can stand it.”
Winding spat, pulled some tobacco from his pocket, and placed a pinch under his tongue. Then he smiled. “It don’t rightly fit but I’ll weather it,” he said.
Around them, the Crows and Shoshones were swiftly erecting their encampment while children gathered into flocks and raced like starlings hither and yon. The Big Robber and Washakie had settled on some thick robes to enjoy a diplomatic smoke, each of them flanked by headmen and shamans.
Skye itched to learn the nature of Mercer’s business but constrained his impulses. If the Briton wanted to talk of it, he would.
But Mercer had a disconcerting way of plunging into the middle of things. “You’re wondering why I’m here, Mister Skye. Now
, I’m quite happy to tell you. I’m an adventurer. I make my living at it. All of Europe starves for knowledge of the far corners of this great world. A man who can feed them stories about Madagascar or Timbuktu or Pitcairn Island or Antarctica is able to make a pretty penny, nay a pretty pound, by scribbling away.”
“You’re a writer, then?”
“Oh, you might call me that. I fancy myself a good and exact chronicler, recording the world with a steady scientific eye. But I’m really a rambler. I go where no one else has gone and write about it. I examine strange people, exotic tribes, bizarre practices, and write of them. I keep a detailed journal, a daily log, in duplicate and in weatherproof containers, in which I record everything. I explore not just the terrain, describing what has never been witnessed by white men, but also the natives. That’s why I’m here. These two tribes are unknown in Europe, and here I am to tell the readers of the London Times or the Guardian what I witness. And the darker and more fantastic, the better. But I also organize my journals into book form. What I see is not for all eyes, of course, and these volumes have an eager readership; people can’t get enough of them. I do have a bit of trouble with censors but that only increases the sales. If I didn’t have a spot of trouble, the books would hardly fly out of the stalls the way they do.”
“A journalist, then,” Skye said.
“Ah, you might say it. But it’s the least of my vocations.”
“What are your larger ones?”
“Explorer, cartographer, ethnologist, geographer, biologist, zoologist, artist, linguist—I have several European tongues, French, Flemish, Dutch, German, Spanish, Portuguese, and a reading knowledge of several others, and by the time I’m done here, I’ll have a few thousand words of Shoshone and Absaroka in my notes, and I’ll be able to speak to any of these people. Now what I don’t have, Mister Skye, is their finger language, sign-talk, and I shall be approaching you for lessons, and especially the nuances.”
The Canyon of Bones Page 2