The Canyon of Bones

by Richard S. Wheeler

  eighteen

  The night was black velvet but her flesh felt silky and the welcoming clasp of her arms was as tender as lamb’s wool. They lay apart from the others. Victoria slept upriver. Mercer, as usual, slumbered in his stained wall tent. The teamsters were bedded under the wagon. This summer’s night was serene but broken by the playful love songs of wolves on distant ridges.

  He lay on the thick robe, she beside him, staring at the star-girt sky. So far, his new union had been joyous and yet he worried. He could not help it.

  He asked her a white man’s question. No Shoshone male would even think of asking such a thing.

  “Are you happy?” he said.

  “I do not know this. Why do you ask?”

  “You are my woman. Is it good? Are you at peace?”

  “I have all that I ever dreamed of, Mister Skye.”

  It was too much a white man’s question, he thought, but then she slid her hand across his beard, toying with it.

  “It is good. I am the woman of Mister Skye. How could it not be good?”

  “I am glad. I am very happy too,” he said.

  “Maybe you will tell me what we will do next,” she said.

  “We’ll take Mercer to the big bones. It makes my head ache to think of the creatures when they were alive. Lizards bigger than the tallest lodge.”

  “We must be very respectful. Their spirits will linger there. The spirit of an animal so big must be very strong.”

  “I think Mercer wants to measure them, sketch them, take a good look, and then guess what sort of beast they were.”

  “Why is this?”

  “He likes to find things his people have never heard of, so he can write about them, tell stories about them.”

  “Our storytellers like to talk about the things we have always known.”

  Skye stared at the mysterious heavens. “Just now, bold men are looking everywhere for new things and new places, things unheard of, animals unknown, plants strange and exotic. They sail the seas. They go to the south and the north. They go to islands where no one has ever been. They go to a place called Africa and see strange people. And all this is being carefully recorded. Mercer is doing that, and has become a great storyteller there in England, and is making much money from it.”

  “He is strange himself,” she said. “He says this trip is no good and yet his eyes don’t see.”

  Skye liked that. He slid an arm around her and pulled her close until her head nestled in the hollow of his shoulder, her raven hair tumbling over his chest. “It’s because he has an idea of what he wants and keeps looking for it. In other places he saw strange animals and strange people, and oddities of nature. In Africa there are horses with black and white stripes called zebras. But here, the animals are familiar, and the people, your people, have been known to English people for two centuries.”

  “He will be happy when he sees the bones.”

  “I think so. The geysers would have fascinated him too. Who in his land has ever seen hot water and steam explode from the ground?”

  “He makes happy smiles but he is restless,” she said. “Mister Skye, in my heart I fear that he will get us into trouble, and I am afraid of him.”

  Skye thought about that, seeing some realism in it. “We will need to be careful, then,” he said. “It will only be for a while. And then he will buy a boat and go down the Big River.”

  A twig snapped near the stream and Skye instantly grew alert. Something was passing through. He sensed a large animal, and waited to hear more, but there was nothing to hear. He peered into the darkness and saw Jawbone looming over him.

  “Go eat,” he said.

  The horse snorted softly, nudged Skye, and meandered away.

  Mary relaxed too. On a summer’s night the whole world moved from place to place. Over the years of living outside he had learned to sort out the shifting of animals, and could sometimes even tell which animal, but most often he knew only that some creature was making its way through the darkness. Somehow, human movement was different. Night sounds ceased, as if humans moving through the night were entombed in silence. He did not sense this silence now.

  She was sitting up, the pale light reflecting off her bare shoulders, so he pulled her close again, and she responded with delight.

  The Musselshell turned north here, and they would follow it clear to the Missouri River, enjoying its flowing water and whatever game might be lurking in its bottoms. It would be a pleasant trip even if Mercer didn’t much like the pace.

  With the dawn, the explorer was up, shaved, and restless as his teamsters heated water for his tea and began some biscuits in a Dutch oven. Skye washed in the river, studied himself for a moment in the shimmering water, finding himself grayer than he had supposed, and then joined Victoria and Mary at the cook fire.

  As Skye somehow expected, Mercer headed his way as soon as it was proper.

  “I say, Skye, I’d like to hurry this along. Can we make better time? I’d like to get across this wasteland in a day or two and get on with it. If I have a peek at the bones, I can be in St. Louis in a few weeks and England before Christmas.”

  “With your wagon, sir, it’s four days, maybe five to the Missouri, and a couple more to the bones.”

  “That long? Gad, Skye, I’m trapped.”

  “All right. We can go much faster if you abandon the wagon.”

  “No, unthinkable.” He smiled. “It’s got a hogshead of gin in it. And a cask of bitters decocted in a mountain stream. You wouldn’t want to ditch that now, would you?”

  Skye nodded. Mercer would have only himself to blame for the lumbering progress across the anonymous plain.

  They toiled down the river and didn’t seem to make progress. Ahead a vast land rose to meet the sky. To the east the land vanished in haze. Skye rode Jawbone to any prominence where he could get a good look at the surrounding country. It all seemed too quiet. The midday heat discouraged even the ravens, and drew sweat from dust-caked horses and humans alike.

  Skye pulled up beside Mercer, who was stretching his legs and walking beside his horse.

  “We might happen on some buffalo. Not just a cluster, but a herd that could run miles wide and more miles long. They drift south and north with the seasons right through here. If you saw a herd like that, Mister Mercer, you’d never forget it. I imagine there are hundreds of thousands in one herd. If they run, or stampede, you’d see something rarely seen by a European. You would have a fine story.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” Mercer retorted.

  But they spotted no giant herd. In fact, Skye saw no sign of buffalo, no broad pathway of torn-up short grass, dung, and dust. This day the August heat built up to unbearable force, and Skye called a halt at a copse of willows on the bank of the Musselshell. The teamsters unhooked the big draft horses and let them drink. Big black horseflies were tormenting man and beast, so Skye pushed on, hoping to find a windswept bench where the cloud of flies wouldn’t drive them half mad.

  The sun didn’t relent and no cloud offered mercy. But just ahead, on a grassy flat beside the river, a dozen vultures lifted into the sun-bleached blue and flapped away. Skye halted at once and watched the vultures flap blackly into the heat of afternoon. Victoria halted too, studied the black birds, and slipped off her horse. She trotted swiftly toward a river bluff and scaled it to gain some perspective on what lay ahead.

  Behind, the wagon drew to a halt, and Mercer sat his horse impatiently. “Well, what’s the slowdown this time?” he asked.

  “Vultures.”

  “Something is dead.”

  “It would seem that way.”

  At Victoria’s signal, Skye proceeded the remaining half mile to the flat, his rifle at the ready. And there, close to the river, were bodies, four in all. Indians, young men, so newly killed that nothing had damaged their flesh except for the arrows protruding from each of them.

  “Mister Mercer, look to your safety. Make sure your men are armed and keeping an eye on the b
luffs.”

  “An attack?”

  “The warriors who did this aren’t likely to return. They dread the spirits of the dead. But never take anything for granted, especially in war.”

  Mercer reached for his rifle, a handsome Sharps model that evoked envy in Skye.

  Victoria, ever bold, slipped into the carnage and studied the dead.

  “Assiniboine,” she said, poking a moccasin. Then she tugged gently until an arrow pulled loose from a man’s thigh, and she squinted at it. “Atsina! Sneaky thieves!”

  “What on earth are Atsina?” Mercer asked.

  “Gros Ventres, Big Bellies,” Skye said. “Allies of the Blackfeet, famous for begging and thievery.”

  “Never heard of them,” Mercer said. “Not much of an item for my journal, I’m afraid.”

  “Not the same as a giraffe,” said Skye, tartly.

  Here was evidence of tragedy, of war and death, yet the explorer dismissed what he saw. Skye dismounted, studied this place for its story, and soon understood what had happened.

  Mercer watched impatiently, eager to be on the road again.

  nineteen

  A great sadness tore through Skye. It was all easy to read. Three Assiniboine boys and an older war leader had camped for the night here. They were on a horse-stealing raid, the first test of a young warrior and the classic medallion of maturity among the plains tribes. And here their dreams came to a brutal end.

  They had been jumped by Gros Ventres, perhaps also young men looking for war honors, and the Gros Ventres had killed every Assiniboine and made off with the Assiniboine ponies. And it had all happened only a few hours earlier. Rigor mortis had not yet stiffened the bodies. The Gros Ventres could be only a few miles distant. They could even be watching.

  There were signs of struggle. The older one, whose gray hair was worn in coarse braids, had four arrows in him, two in the abdomen, one in the chest, and one through the neck. His bow was shattered. He had several ancient war wounds, puckered flesh that spoke of bloody fighting. The ground around him was disturbed. He had not surrendered easily. The neck wound, which must have pierced an artery, had bled and now bright blood, not yet browned by time, covered his flesh.

  The others had come to swift ends. One youth’s skull had been split by a war axe. Another had died of an arrow through his mouth. Another had a belly wound and had been mutilated in a way that suggested revenge or maybe triumph. Another had been cleaved at the back of the neck, and probably had been trying to run away from his pursuer.

  Victoria knew better than he did what people these were and who the attackers had been. Each tribe made moccasins its own way, and signed their arrows their own way. Trying to memorize all that made Skye dizzy but she knew at a glance. The Gros Ventres had few arts; everything from arrows to clothing was coarse. The Assiniboine were gifted workers of leather and bead and all the bone and flesh and hair of the buffalo. These boys wore handsome moccasins.

  Mercer stood at the edge of the bloody field, not wanting to get too close, his gaze on the hills, vigilant against attack. Maybe this was more story than he or his London readers wanted to read over their breakfast tea.

  “Are you sure we’re safe here?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure of anything.”

  “They could be lurking over the hill.”

  “They could, but probably aren’t.”

  “I’ll keep watch,” Mercer said, his gaze resolutely on the ridges.

  Death draws the eye, even if one doesn’t want to look. The four bodies seemed to blot out everything else; the bright hot day, the green of the river bottoms, the copses of willows and chokecherry, the flight of birds.

  “Well, we’d better be going,” Mercer said. “Losing time.”

  “No,” said Skye. “I will bury them.”

  Victoria looked sharply at him. She didn’t want to bury these enemies.

  “But they mean nothing to us; I understand these tribes were enemies of your wives.”

  “The death of anyone is an occasion for grief,” Skye said. “Their families would want us to care for these men.”

  “But shoveling four graves—”

  “I will put them on scaffolds; that is how these people bury their own.”

  “Well, as long as you’re in my employ, I’ll ask you to push on. We can make another ten miles today.”

  Skye ignored the man. He probably would do this task all alone. Victoria would be wary of the lingering and angry spirits of the dead. Mary would watch quietly.

  He fetched his axe and headed for a great cottonwood tree with overspreading limbs, some of which were horizontal. Nearby were green cottonwood saplings, still straight and true.

  Victoria caught up with him, hatchet in hand. “Damn,” was all she said.

  They hacked and limbed the poles, working steadily while Mercer paced and glared. The adventurer would not discharge Skye; not here, Skye thought. Mary dug into the skimpy possessions of the Skye household and found a ball of thong. When twenty poles had been readied, Skye lifted each one onto the cottonwood limbs and the women anchored the poles to the limbs with thong. It was taking a long time, and Mercer was watching thunderously but saying nothing. He drifted closer now, studying the dead, putting them into his mental notebook if not his journal.

  There were ancient blankets lying about; some half ruined by blood. Blankets not even the Atsinas wanted. They would do.

  Skye spread one next to the older warrior, the war leader, and then cut away the arrows with his Green River knife. He nodded to Victoria. Together they lifted the warrior onto the center of the ancient red blanket, covered the man’s empty face, and tied the bundle tight with thong.

  Skye wished someone would help him lift this burden, but the two teamsters were on the nearby bluff, rifles ready, keeping an eye out, and maybe that was best.

  It was hot and getting hotter. Hard to breathe. Flies swarmed around the bodies. Slowly, he and Victoria wrapped the Assiniboine boys in their tattered blankets. One had an ancient buffalo robe that would serve as a shroud.

  “What is this turtle thing he’s got around his neck?” Mercer asked, studying the youngest of the dead youths.

  Skye saw that the boy was wearing a turtle totem, a small leather pouch that rested on his bronze chest.

  “It‘s his natal totem,” Skye said. “His umbilical cord’s probably inside. It’s who he is, all compressed into that totem.”

  “I want it,” Mercer said.

  “No! It belongs to this boy.”

  “Do not take it,” Victoria added. “The boy’s ghost will follow you the rest of your life, and bad things will happen.”

  Mercer smiled, even white teeth, his chiseled features lighting up.

  “All the more reason for me to have it. I love to own the things that have stories in them.”

  With that, he knelt, slipped the leather turtle totem up and over the youth’s head, and put it into his pocket.

  Victoria muttered. Mary cast her gaze elsewhere, not wanting to see what she had seen.

  Skye paused. “Mister Mercer, out of respect for the dead, you’ll wish to place the turtle totem inside the boy’s funeral wrapping.”

  Mercer smiled. “I carry a good-luck coin, a shilling, actually. Here. Put that in. We’ll trade luck.” He withdrew the coin from his britches and dropped it on the blanket.

  Skye stared at the coin. All right, he thought. A fair trade. Maybe.

  Victoria stared, uncertain about the swap. Skye wrapped the youth in the old blue blanket and quietly tied the bundle shut.

  And then they were ready: Skye slid his arms under the bundle containing the war leader, the enemy of his wife’s people, who was far heavier than the boys. He staggered under the weight, and Victoria helped by lifting the warrior’s feet. But finally Skye had the body in hand, and he struggled to the benevolent cottonwood, with its deep shade and noble height, and they hoisted the warrior to his grave, just above Skye’s own height, and straightened him out. The o
ther three would barely fit.

  Mercer paced but did not assist. That was fine. Skye somehow didn’t want him here under the funeral tree, thinking of journal entries instead of burying the dead and respecting the lives that were lost this hot and windless day.

  One by one, Skye and his women lifted the youths, carried them to their aerial grave, lined them up side by side, until at last all four rested on the scaffold. Skye removed his old top hat.

  “Rest in peace,” he said.

  Their bones wouldn’t. The carrion birds would be at them soon, tearing through the tattered blankets.

  “That was touching,” Mercer said. “A wilderness massacre, a burial, the possibility of another raid always with us.”

  Skye thought that he was beginning to understand the soul of the man. He was hungry for a story and that hunger trumped everything else including ordinary compassion. Did Mercer have any feeling at all for these dead men? Did he see them as mortal? Did he see them as boys with mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters? Did he see them as youths hungry to be men, out on a raid for the first time, only to lose everything?

  “Let’s go,” he said to Mercer, who smiled brightly with the three-hour delay ended.

  Skye rode ahead. If there were hostile Indians about and they were in a fighting mood, he would need to be on guard. The teamsters got the wagon rolling. Mary and Victoria started their travois-laden horses.

  Mercer spurred his sleek horse and pulled up beside Skye, who didn’t want the company.

  “Mister Skye, I’ve come to apologize.”

  That surprised Skye.

  “You did the right thing, burying those chaps. That’s the golden rule, isn’t it? Treat ’em as we’d like to be treated.”

  “It is.”

  “I was going to discharge you. Disobeying and all that. I won’t. You’ve taught me a thing or two.”

  “You’ve taught me a thing or two, Mister Mercer.”

  “Do you really think bad luck’s going to follow me because I’ve got the chap’s turtle in my pocket?”