The Canyon of Bones

by Richard S. Wheeler

  The meat finally was brown and hot, and its savory fragrance filled the lodge. Victoria silently pulled a stick free, its slice of meat pendant on it, and handed it to Mercer, who accepted it with clumsy hands. It fell to the ground. He stabbed it and lifted it up.

  He cleared his throat. “Mister Skye, Madame Skye, and Madame Skye,” he said. “I apologize to you for offensive remarks and equally offensive conduct. Thank you for letting me stay in this lodge.”

  That was as startling as an earthquake.

  “I am very sorry,” Mercer concluded.

  No one spoke.

  Time had frozen.

  “Well, eat up,” said Skye. “Plenty of meat here, killed a buck, enough meat to fetch us to Fort Benton.”

  Mercer bowed his head. “We thank thee, Lord, for these thy gifts.”

  Skye paused. The women stared.

  They ate in silence.

  Which person residing in that body was Graves Mercer?

  forty-five

  The Missouri River is a tough stream to ford, even at low water. Skye had to get his party across it to reach Fort Benton. He didn’t know which ford to use so he followed the trail most heavily worn, and found it winding into an ancient bed of the river and then around a bend to the actual channel where the river sparkled. The adobe fort loomed across the water on a broad flat, its bastions guarding its walls. Lodges were scattered around it.

  This trail took Skye and his party upriver a mile and then it dropped straight toward the water’s edge close to the smaller opposition post, Fort Campbell. The river ran low now but that was a lot of river between the south bank and the north, and the water wasn’t moving slowly, either. It was hurrying here, sucking at anything in its way.

  Skye turned to Mercer. “I’m going to have Victoria lead your horse.”

  Mercer nodded. He had been subdued ever since that night of the storm. His hands were all but useless, and Skye didn’t want him trying to rein a horse, especially if the ford involved a drop-off and the horses had to swim a channel. It would be all Mercer could manage just to stay in the saddle.

  Victoria took Mercer’s reins. Behind them, Mary was herding the packhorses and the wild bunch trailed along at its own pace. They were all on the bank, staring at the icy water, which showed not a ripple that might suggest a ledge or a ford.

  “Let me sound it out,” Skye said, steering Jawbone toward the cold water. The horse hated cold, laid back his ears until they were flat on his skull, and then minced in, high light steps that splashed water everywhere. The ford descended quickly until water was pushing at Jawbone’s belly, and Skye was keeping his feet high and forward. The flow threatened to push Jawbone off balance but the determined young animal bulled ahead and then suddenly the bottom rose. They could traverse the river there without swimming.

  Jawbone clambered up the north bank and shook himself so violently he almost tossed Skye to the ground. Skye watched the others plunge in, start a hundred-fifty-yard passage. It went smoothly. Mercer kept his balance even when his horse began sidestepping under the pressure of the flow. Victoria made it, but her moccasins and lower skirts were soaked. Mary had a hard time dragging the packhorses into the river, and in the middle, when the current was wetting their bellies, two of them bolted forward, the packs rocking on their backs, the lodgepoles and lodge careening behind them. The wild bunch simply swam. Then, suddenly, they were on the north side, water rolling off them, thoroughly chilled. The sun had lost its summer’s potency and now was a wan and subdued friend.

  The American Fur Company post stood downriver, its flag flapping quietly. Skye had worked for the company back in the beaver days. Now its business was buffalo hides and peltries of all sorts.

  There it was. Civilization of a sort. It basked in the bright light, snugged under yellow bluffs. It had been erected maybe fifty yards back from the riverbank.

  Every hour of every day the clear cold water of the Missouri, fed by mountains upstream, hurried past on its way to the Gulf of Mexico. For Yanks, it was passage home. For Skye and Mary and Victoria, it was just another big stream.

  This was a sleepy afternoon hour. Skye saw no one moving through the scatter of lodges around the post, or anyone entering the massive, and wide open, front gate. He rejoiced. His long hard journey was done. He would soon have Mercer settled there, awaiting transport downriver. Then Skye and his wives would stock up. Five hundred dollars was a lot of money. It would buy rifles and blankets and tools and kettles and horse tack. It would fix his family’s fortunes for a year or two.

  He had done it: taken the London explorer where he wanted to go, shown him what he wanted to see, saved him from fire and other disasters, nursed his health, shared stories. Skye had faithfully done what he was hired to do and had done it well. Now would be the harvesttime, a farewell to the adventurer. They would outfit and head south. Who knows where? Victoria’s people, maybe. Fort Laramie, maybe. There was work to be found at Laramie, on the Oregon Trail. People wanted guides with them.

  But all that could wait. He watched Victoria wring out her skirts, Mary smooth the doeskin and let its water drip away. He watched Mercer, who sat quietly, eyeing the fur post a mile distant.

  It was time to move. Skye led them along the riverbank, past the opposition post, over level meadow worn by the passage of countless horses. They reached the scatter of sagging buffalo-hide lodges that dotted the plain. Then Victoria urged her pony forward until she was alongside Skye.

  “Sarsi!” she said.

  He studied the lodges, not certain of it. “You sure?”

  “The same ones!”

  Skye was suddenly grateful they were in the powerful reach of the post. He slowed until Mercer caught up.

  “Victoria says those are Sarsi lodges and likely the same bunch. It makes sense; come south to visit the bones, come here to trade before going back to British possessions.”

  “You don’t say! Will they …”

  Mercer’s sudden fear was palpable.

  “Posts are safe ground. They won’t touch you.”

  “But, Skye. Sarsi? Protect me! What if …”

  “Mister Mercer, sit up. We’ll ride in there and you have nothing to worry about.”

  But as they approached and were recognized, they had plenty to worry about. Sarsi swiftly congregated around them, their gaze on Mercer, following along with every step of the horses, even as Skye’s party pierced the great gate and entered the post’s yard, a small rectangle girt by high adobe walls, the warehouse, and other rooms.

  They were the same band of Sarsi, all right. There was the headman, he who had a secret name, and there were the others. Mercer began chattering and shivering. He seemed half wild. A few of the post’s engaged men materialized from various rooms, their dress drab compared to the brightly clad young Sarsi.

  Skye looked for trouble and saw none. The Sarsi stood in deep silence, their gaze riveted upon the one back from the dead. Skye spotted a man who might be in charge.

  “Can anyone talk the Sarsi tongue?” he asked.

  “Yes. And you?”

  “Skye, sir. Mister Skye.”

  “Ah! I should have known. I’m Ezekiel Lamar. Let me fetch the trader.”

  “Good!”

  Skye hoped it might be Alexander Culbertson, who had governed this post for a generation but had retired to Peoria, Illinois, with his Blackfoot wife Natawista. Culbertson had come upriver frequently since then, sometimes bringing the annuities the Yank government gave to the Blackfeet, sometimes bringing the post its resupply from the American Fur Company. Officially, he was still the post’s factor even though he was largely an absentee one and in charge of all the upper Missouri posts for American Fur.

  But it was no man Skye knew: a beefy Scot, Andrew Dawson.

  Skye dismounted and shook hands.

  “What brings these Sarsi in here? Why do they stare at that man? Who’s this fellow?” Dawson asked.

  Skye made the introductions. “Mister Mercer is the expl
orer, here from London, collecting stories.”

  “Fine, fine, but why are these Sarsi staring at him?”

  They were indeed staring, their gazes riveted on Mercer, who shrank under them, rubbing his arms, and looking about ready to leap off his horse and flee.

  “Long story, Mister Dawson. But would you do the honors?”

  The trader nodded.

  “Tell their headman, whose medicine is to reveal no name, that Mister Mercer lives. See what the man says.”

  Dawson conducted a considerable conversation with the headman, using no hand-sign that Skye could follow.

  “It seems that his people sacrificed Mercer to the spirit of the big bones but here he is. That can only mean that Mercer has powerful medicine. They have gathered here to see the medicine man, dead and now alive, bearing the bruises of his death. This makes not a bit of sense to me, Skye.”

  “I would be most grateful if you called me Mister Skye, sir.”

  “Yes, yes, your reputation precedes you. But here they are. There’s Mercer. And now he’s the object of their veneration, it seems.”

  Mercer began laughing wildly. “Bloody savages, almost murdered me, left me to die, killed my teamster too. And now they think I’m bloody immortal. Hang the whole lot, I say, string every one up, send them all to hell.”

  Skye started to object but Dawson suddenly loomed large, standing close to Mercer and his horse. “Mister Mercer, they’re in awe of you. They have their own beliefs about life and death. They are friends of us all. There will be no more of that talk. They trade here. Friendly people, friends of the Piegans and Bloods. Do not make trouble for yourself.”

  “Make trouble for myself! My God, man, they made trouble for me! They tied me up and left me to perish! Hang the lot!”

  Dawson was not pleased. He turned to the headman and spoke at length and listened at length. Then he turned to Mercer.

  “You are absolutely safe among them.”

  Mercer nodded curtly, dismissing the Sarsi. “When can I get transportation downriver?”

  Skye stared. Mercer had turned abrupt and demanding again, his gaze imperious, his manner imperious, his posture lordly. He was addressing underlings and servants and rabble.

  “No one is traveling that I know of, sir. Not until spring.”

  “Then find me a boat! I’ll go myself!”

  Dawson smiled. “Mister Mercer, dismount, I pray. Come join us for a supper. We’ve much to discuss.”

  “I will not abandon this horse until these vermin are driven out of this place.”

  Dawson saw how it was with Mercer.

  “They wish to place gifts at your feet. They wish to be touched by the man with medicine. They wish to bestow a name, He Who Has Come from the Bones.”

  Skye helped Victoria and Mary off their ponies and began putting his horses into the pen with the help of Lamar. Out in the yard, Mercer sat his horse, gazed imperiously at the young Sarsi quietly collected around him, and the minutes ticked by without any change at all.

  forty-six

  Sundown resolved the impasse. Always at that hour the gates of Fort Benton were closed, and Lamar or another of the engaged men invited any tribesmen within the post to leave.

  “Sundown, sundown,” the man bawled, and wordlessly the Sarsi retreated into the quiet flat surrounding the post. Mercer watched imperiously, and when the last Indian walked through the massive gate the explorer stepped down, handed his horse to the nearest employee, and headed toward the chief trader’s handsome house, which snuggled against one wall of the fort.

  Dawson was sitting on its veranda, smoking his pipe, keeping an eye on events. Skye had settled his wives in a small room reserved for women. He would stay in the company barracks along with the engaged men and now sat beside the chief trader. A peace descended on the post along with a sharp chill.

  “I shall want a room, sir,” Mercer said.

  The tone instantly troubled Skye. The man had slipped back into his imperious ways.

  “I will be pleased to accommodate ye, Mister Mercer,” Dawson said. “The gentlemen bunk just over there.”

  “A room, Mister Dawson, a room.”

  “I wish we had one, Mister Mercer.”

  “You do. Your dwelling here has several rooms.”

  “This is a private home, sir. It houses either the factor or the chief trader.” Dawson suddenly relented. “Ye may have one, if ye wish.”

  Mercer smiled, a row of white teeth again. “You are a gentleman, sir, welcoming me in this manner.”

  Dawson rose from his hand-hewn chair, went inside, and a moment later a handsome young Indian woman materialized.

  “Letitia will show ye the way, Mister Mercer,” Dawson said.

  “Good. Just the ticket. What time is dinner, Dawson?”

  Mercer scarcely noticed the woman, who picked up the parfleche containing the small sum of Mercer’s possessions. But Skye knew intuitively what Dawson’s household arrangement was. She was a tall, striking Blackfoot.

  Dawson considered it a moment. “We will put food on the table whenever ye are ready, sir. Shall we say an hour?”

  “I shall want some duds, Mister Dawson. I shall write you a draft. Let us proceed to the trading room, eh?”

  “Can it wait until morning, sir? The room is closed and the day’s accounts are in the ledger.”

  “Surely you can accommodate a man in need of a few items of clothing. I haven’t a shirt to my name.”

  Dawson stirred unhappily. “Very well,” he said.

  He knocked the dottle from his pipe, left it at his chair, and headed across the yard to the trading room, which was on the river side of the post next to the great gate. He turned to Skye:

  “Long as we’re about it, is there anything you need?”

  “Yes, sir, if you’ll accept Mister Mercer’s draft.”

  Mercer hurried up. “What’s all this? A draft?”

  Skye nodded. “I’ll get it.”

  Mercer laughed oddly.

  Skye headed toward his gear, stored in a heap beside his bunk, found the robe with Mercer’s debt instrument painted on it, and headed for the trading room. Dawson had lit an oil lamp, which cast yellow light into the far corners. This was a pungent, pleasant place, with thick blankets stacked on shelves, bolts of gingham, trays of cutlery and arrow points, sacks of sugar and flour, barrels of hard candy, a rack of new and used rifles, strings of bright beads, plugs of tobacco, and a hundred other items that Indians bought in exchange for the furs and pelts they heaped on the trading counter each day.

  The explorer had already heaped clothing on the hand-sawn counter when Skye pushed in, carrying his heavy buffalo robe.

  “A dollar for a ready-made shirt? This is madness! I won’t pay it,” Mercer was saying. He had a blue chambray shirt in hand, waving it so that the sleeves danced.

  “They come a long way, Mister Mercer. At great risk. The company loses ten or fifteen percent of everything in transit, every year. We’ve had entire boatloads vanish in the river.”

  “Bosh. I’ve heard that before. What you do is charge the most you can get away with, and offer the least.”

  Dawson took it easily. “Yes, and the Opposition upriver does just the same. And if they charge a bit less than we do, or pay a bit more for pelts, we feel it here.”

  Skye waited quietly while Mercer complained about most of his merchandise. The courteous Dawson nodded and absorbed it. Then the chief trader dipped a steel nib pen into an inkpot and scratched out a bill of sale. Then he pulled a pad of preprinted debt instruments.

  “It comes to eighty-seven and forty-two cents, Mister Mercer. I’ve filled out this instrument. What we need is your signature and the name of your bank, and your endorsement of the clause that says there will be collection fees.”

  “It’s Barclay’s Bank,” Mercer said. “All right.” He signed, initialed the proviso.

  Dawson, finished with Mercer, turned to Skye. “What may I do for you, my friend?”

/>   Skye hoisted the robe to the counter, fleshed side up, and showed Dawson the carefully worded instrument painted there. A hundred pounds on account, and signed by Mercer.

  Dawson studied it. “A rather unusual draft, wouldn’t ye say, Mister Skye?”

  “There was no paper.”

  “Come hither, Mister Mercer. Here’s a draft for a hundred pounds on the back of this robe, and it carries your signature. I can cut this out of the robe and ship it to St. Louis, and the company can forward it to London for collection. But I should like your guarantee.”

  “What’s this! What on earth is this?” Mercer glanced at the robe, over which he had spent so much time. “A damned forgery, sir.”

  Skye felt his blood rise. Suddenly he knew, he knew what was coming. “You guaranteed it,” he said tautly.

  “Guaranteed what? What did I get? You almost got me killed. I got nothing out of the whole trip. You were so incompetent you got me into a fire, failed to protect me from savages, and bungled everything so badly you’re lucky I even talk to you.”

  Skye choked back his mounting rage. “Did we agree on a hundred pounds and did I bring you here safely?”

  “We agreed on nothing! I had my own men. I didn’t need a bloody guide or some lice-ridden sluts. You claptrap bunch of parasites hung on like leeches, wanting handouts, charity. I couldn’t find any way to get rid of you.”

  Skye tried hard to stay calm. “It’s owed me, sir. You were taken where you wished to go.”

  Mercer grinned. “My gawd, a confidence man of the wilds!” He snatched the inkpot and carefully poured a black puddle over his painfully wrought signature on the leather.

  Skye sadly watched the ink spread and sink in.

  Dawson looked solemn. “The company asks two-bits a sheet for paper, but I’ll donate a sheet. Here, Mister Mercer. Draft a payment for Mister Skye.”

  “This bloody impostor? This bloody degenerate? For what? Tell me, for what?”