Beneath a Hunter's Moon

by Michael Zimmer

  “It is different,” Gabriel said.

  “’Tis hoodoo, lad. Christian or savage, it cuts the same.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Charlo said mildly. “Unless you wish to hunt alone, there will be a blessing.”

  McTavish shook his head. “A man can no longer hunt alone, not with the Sioux lookin’ to lift his scalp, damn their black-hearted souls.”

  Charlo looked up with cocked brow, a twisted grin. “You damn them, Big John? And you without a God?”

  “Not without a God, old friend, but not blinded by a Black Robe’s words, either. I’ll make my own way through this life we’ve been given, and I’ll face my own God when the time comes.”

  Pike’s interest was piqued. He’d been wondering ever since his rescue from the Chippewas who these men were and where they had come from. He hadn’t asked because he’d figured it wasn’t any of his business, but curiosity finally got the better of him.

  “What’s this hunt you keep talking about?” he asked McTavish.

  “For buffalo, Mister Pike, and the pemmican and robes we’ll be harvestin’ from the herds.”

  “And a priest?”

  That brought a taut chuckle from the Scotsman. “Aye, a priest, and what’s one to do with the other, you’re no doubt askin’.” He turned an amused eye on Charlo.

  “We have accepted the Catholic faith,” Charlo explained with quiet dignity. “We have given up our heathen gods and ask only for the protection of the one true God.”

  McTavish sniffed in disdain and looked away. Gabriel took up the conversation. “Twice each year, in the spring and the fall, we go onto the plains to hunt buffalo. We go as a tribe, the bois brûle, as protection against the Sioux whose lands we must cross. We ask the priest for his blessing to guide us safely to the buffalo, and to give us strength and courage against our enemies. We also ask him to hear our confessions, so that the souls of those who do not return will be less burdened.”

  “The bois brûle?” Pike felt suddenly foolish in his ignorance.

  “Of the Red River.” After a moment of silence, McTavish’s brows furrowed. “Ye’ve not heard of the bois brûle, Mister Pike?”

  “I’ve heard the words, that’s about all.”

  The Scotsman’s frown deepened. “I’d figured ye for an Astor man, Mister Pike, maybe from Fort Union or Fort Clark on the Missouri River, but I cannot imagine an employee of ol’ John Jacob not knowin’ of the Red River Settlements.”

  “I don’t work for Astor.”

  “Well, and sure, ’tis the settlements ye’ve come to, knowin’ of ’em or not. Not the big one at Fort Douglas, at the mouth of the Assiniboine up in Rupert’s Land, but the village of Saint Joseph at the edge of the Hair Hills.”

  Pike shook his head. Although McTavish had been partially right, he had been an American fur man for a while, but farther west, with William Vanderburg’s brigade of beaver trappers in the mountainous lands of the Absarokas and Blackfeet. He’d quit the outfit cold when he learned of Arch’s death, though, and had struck out across the sun-parched plains into British Territory following a trail already several months old. He’d been working his way east ever since, although jagging back and forth a lot. Sometimes he’d lose the trail for three or four days at a time, but then he’d come across some new sign to convince him that he was still on the right track, still dogging the trail of Arch’s killers. Other than that, he hadn’t known where he was when the Chippewas jumped him, nor had he much cared.

  “The Red River Settlements was Hudson’s Bay’s idea,” Gabriel continued solemnly. “They saw it as a way to bring farmers into the pays sauvage, and drive the hostiles out. It would also be a place where the old traders who did not wish to leave the north country could retire.”

  “Well, there’s more to the story than that,” Big John said after a pause. He looked at Pike, the wisp of a smile tracing his lips. “’Twas Eighteen and Twelve when the farmers came, Scottish Highlanders like meself, though I was never one of ’em, mind ye. A trader I was, and here long before the farmers showed up, but that’s another story, one I’ll be savin’ for another fire.

  “’Twas Lord Selkirk himself, of the Bay Company, that brought ’em here. A refuge for them that was forced from their homes in Scotland by a growin’ sheep industry that needed their land, his lordship claimed, and a boon to Hudson’s Bay to have the grain growers nearby, although I’d wager it was considerable less than that to the Selkirkers, as we called ’em. Fur and farmin’ will never mix, we told ’em… us of the old North West Company… but it was war then between the two big fur companies, and the innocent crofters caught in between.

  “There was some sorry deeds done and some good men killed, and I’ll not claim the Nor’Westers were innocent in it all, although there are some who still do.” He paused reflectively. “’Twas all for naught, though,” he continued finally. “The farmers are still here and maybe… well, maybe the country’s better off for it.”

  After another lengthy pause, McTavish lowered his voice and went on: “It was in ’Twenty-One that the glorious North West Company lost the war and was merged with Hudson’s Bay. Those of us who refused to work for the Bay Company had our contracts terminated and became freemen, meself among ’em, and proud of the title, too. A free man to sell my furs and pemmican and buffalo robes to them that wanted it most, and was willin’ to pay the prices I asked. The Bay Company by tradition, but to the American traders if I prefer. American Fur is the largest of that lot, but there’s always a few independents about.”

  “Only the robes and furs to the Americans,” Gabriel reminded him.

  “Sure, robes and furs and fine Métis clothin’ such as jackets and moccasins, all quilled and beaded for fancy, but the lad’s right. It’s our pemmican the Bay Company wants most. To feed their canoe men, their voyageurs and hommes du nord who work the far northern regions of the Athabasca, where the furs be thick and rich as gold and the rivers all flow north into the Arctic Ocean. ’Tis a far piece to that country, and the voyageurs couldn’t make it before freeze-up without the Métis’ pemmican to feed them. ’Tis too far to hunt their own meat along the way. It would take too much time away from their paddlin’.”

  Pike nodded, finally comprehending the farmers’ purpose along the Red River—to raise food for Hudson’s Bay so that their traders wouldn’t have to bother with such trifling details themselves. And the half-breed hunters—the offspring of the French, Scottish, and English traders—supplied them with pemmican, that protein-rich concoction of pulverized dried meat and melted fat, packed tightly into leather sacks and sewn shut until it was needed.

  It was a good, hearty food, easy to carry, and a little bit went a long way. Pike considered it fair eating when fresh meat wasn’t available, although a man had to be careful who he bought it from. Some providers took pride in their work and would add berries and herbs for flavoring; others didn’t much care, and made only a casual effort to keep out excess hair, twigs, or pieces of bone.

  With his pipe packed and the carrot of tobacco set aside, Charlo said to Pike: “You will hunt with us this year?”

  “’Tis not a thing we’ve talked of yet,” McTavish interjected, glancing at Pike. “But it’s one I’m hopin’ he’ll agree to. Tell me, Mister Pike, what do ye think of the bay horse ye’ve been ridin’? Is he fair, would ye say?”

  “He’s fair,” Pike admitted.

  “Aye, a six-year-old and quick as a buffalo on his feet, though smallish. Still, he’d make ye a fine mount.”

  “I’ve nothing to trade for him,” Pike reminded the Scotsman.

  “Well, maybe,” McTavish replied vaguely. “We’ll be goin’ after buffalo soon. Leavin’ at the end of the week, most likely. I’ll be takin’ three carts and Gabriel’ll take one, and we’ll need to fill ’em all. I could use an extra hunter, were ye so inclined.”

  “To run ’em?”

  “Aye, that and to help some with the butcherin’. We’ll be makin’ pemmican in the field a
nd carin’ for the hides and robes there, too, but such is a woman’s lot, and I’ll not ask ye to do that. A month ye’d be, most likely, and no more than two, and I’d trade ye the bay for ye labors, plus powder and lead and what supplies ye’ll need to take ye where ye wanted to go afterward. What say ye, Mister Pike? Are ye interested?”

  Pike tipped his head back, staring at the light that played along the rafters. It was a fair offer for a man without a horse and only the powder and ball he carried in his shooting bag, and he figured there was a good chance the men he’d been trailing for most of the summer had been heading for the Red River country all along. If that was the case, then hunting for McTavish would provide him an alibi to nose around without suspicion. But if Arch’s killers hadn’t stopped at the Red, Pike knew he wouldn’t waste the month or more McTavish was asking for. He’d steal the bay and whatever supplies he needed and push on, leaving the half-breeds and McTavish to deal with his betrayal however they saw fit.

  “All right, McTavish,” Pike said. “I’ll run buffalo with you. Let’s see where it takes us.”

  * * * * *

  The sun hadn’t yet reached the valley floor when Pike and Big John rode out the next morning, although it had been light for some time. Gabriel’s trail was a dark trace across the dewy meadow, disappearing only after it started up the tall hill to the north. Gabriel himself was little more than a speck of color against the deep blue sky near the top, his piebald horse already half hidden by the brow of the hill.

  “There’s a trail up there the lad will follow,” McTavish explained. “He’ll talk to them that live along it, and let ’em know we’ll be leavin’ within the week. Charlo will do the same for those who live to the south.”

  “How many folks live up here?” Pike asked, swiveling his head to study the rugged terrain. He and McTavish were moving down the valley to the east, following a cart track that hugged the river.

  “Only a few that the lad will find, but word of the hunt will spread quick enough. They’re primed for it, those that will go.” He lifted his reins. “What do ye say, Mister Pike? Shall we let our ponies have some rein?”

  Pike nodded, urging the bay into a lope after Big John’s roan. They followed the winding course of the Pembina all morning, stopping at noon where the hills ended abruptly at the edge of a broad, flat plain.

  “The Red River Valley,” McTavish announced, removing his coat without dismounting and tying it behind his saddle. “We’ll swing wide around Saint Joseph if ye’ve no objection. ’Tis only a small settlement, and most of ’em will be at me cabin in another day or so anyway. We’ll be most of the afternoon gettin’ home as it is, but it’ll be tomorrow for sure if we linger at Saint Joseph.”

  “It doesn’t matter one way or the other to me,” Pike said. “I’m following you, remember?”

  They crossed the Pembina and rode south for several miles until they came to a trail leading toward a shallow notch in the ridge on their left. The climb was steeper than it looked, and they pulled up on top to let the horses blow. It was from here that Pike got his first good look at the Red River Valley. It was as big as Big John had implied, flat as the bottom of a frying pan. Even from here, the far side of the valley was hidden behind the curve of the earth.

  It was the same looking north and south, too, the land just flowing outward until it seemed to fade into a metallic haze. Although level and drab, it wasn’t without feature. To the north, the Pembina River cut boldly across the plain, its winding banks lined with trees ablaze in their fall colors, and here and there throughout the valley stood patches of forest, like scarlet-crowned atolls thrust from a tawny sea. Far to the south, cutting diagonally before them to the northeast, was another broad stream, banked in thick foliage. But there were no farms that Pike could see, no rippling fields of grain or feeding cattle.

  “Ye were expectin’ more?” McTavish asked, seeing his reaction.

  “I reckon I was. You mentioned farms and settlements last night.”

  “Ah, they’re there, Mister Pike. They’re just too far away to see from here, and Saint Joseph is hidden by the point of yon hill. There are some fields there, but no real farms, and none at all along the Pembina except me own, and that’s near to the other side of the valley, at the mouth of the Tongue River that ye see in front of us, angling to the northeast. The farms the lad spoke of last night lie above the border in Rupert’s Land, what ye likely think of as Canada. A regular settlement, that is.”

  “Who lives here?”

  “Hunters, mostly. Sure, they’ll raise some garden truck, but farmin’s not in their blood. Aye, hunters, and proud of it. Too proud, some might say.”

  But Pike sided with the Métis on that. “It’s a good life,” he said. “I’d rather hunt than farm, any day.”

  They made their cautious descent to the valley floor, where McTavish lifted his horse into a lope once more. The afternoon passed without conversation, until nearly sundown when they came to the line of trees and brush that Pike had spotted from above. A cart track ran parallel to it, and they swung onto that, slowing their horses to a walk for the first time since leaving the hills.

  “The Tongue,” McTavish commented, nodding at the river. Jutting his chin toward a dense woods up ahead, he added: “She joins the Pembina there, then it’s another hour east to where the Pembina joins the Red. Near to thirty miles between Saint Joseph and the Red River, I’d guess.”

  “You said your farm was here, on the Tongue?” Pike couldn’t see anything ahead of them except the woods.

  “Aye, beyond yon trees there, along the southeast bank.”

  When they came to the woods, McTavish reined his horse off the cart path and down to the Tongue. The river was deeper here than the Pembina had been in the hills, its current slow and muddy, and although no more than a dozen feet across, Pike had to lift his feet to keep from soaking his moccasins in the deep, warm waters. The land on the opposite bank reminded him of the country southwest of Missouri, where he’d spent a couple of seasons trading with the Osages for the Chouteau company. It had a muggy, Eastern feel to it, more so than even the Hair Hills.

  They followed a narrow path into the heart of the woods. On either side the land looked low and marshy, marked with hummocks of coarse dead grass surrounded by stagnant ponds. Mosquitoes buzzed among the rushes, and greenheads and deerflies badgered men and horses alike.

  “’Tis worse in summer,” McTavish proclaimed cheerfully. “A snaky place, too.”

  “Why do you live here?”

  “I don’t,” was the Scotsman’s unadorned reply.

  Another half hour brought them through the dense woods. As they cleared the trees, Pike saw a cluster of buildings in the distance. There was a cabin of hewn logs with a high-peaked thatch roof, a low barn of sun-bleached cottonwood, and a small open-faced shed with a corral to one side. Maybe a dozen acres of recently harvested grain fields lay to the south of the farmhouse, sprinkled with sheaves of barley stacked haphazardly throughout.

  More than a score of teepees dotted the flat plain east of the buildings, each with its own cart—or sometimes two or three carts—sitting beside it, with a sizable herd of horses and oxen spread out grazing beyond them. Children raced, screaming and shouting among the hide lodges, caught up in games of their own making, while women trudged unhurriedly from one chore to the next, toting armloads of firewood or kettles that splashed river water over their dark wool or calico skirts. Some carried infants strapped to their backs in cradleboards, others sported short clay pipes clenched firmly between their teeth like permanent fixtures attached to their lips.

  The men were gathered in small groups around the buildings, talking expressively. Some sat cross-legged and slope-backed; others stood hip-shot, their arms folded in grave consideration of whatever subject they were discussing. The air above their heads was hazed with tobacco smoke, and, when they spoke, their hands flashed animatedly, as if in rhythm with the conversation.

  Dogs ran everywhere. Most
of them were curs, small and neutrally shaded, but Pike also noticed an uncommon number of larger canines, too, heavily-muscled brutes with tails that curled over their backs and thick, brushed coats of tan, silver, and black. Sled dogs, he realized with something of a start, displaying an air of loftiness among the lesser animals.

  But it was the windmill that Pike’s gaze kept returning to. It was the first he’d ever seen outside of a wood-cut illustration—a broad-based, squatty-looking structure for all its two stories, with four large, rawhide-covered blades revolving slowly in a sluggish breeze. A group of boys were playing beneath it, leaping up to catch a blade as it crept past, then hanging on until it was almost horizontal before letting go and falling back to earth.

  Pike whistled, impressed. “That’s some,” he allowed.

  “Aye, though not as practical as I’d once hoped,” Big John admitted. “Farmin’ did not catch on this far south. In the early years, I thought it might.”

  It was one of the boys at the windmill who spotted them first. He yelled in recognition, then yelled again as he sprinted toward the barn with his news. The other boys followed, shouting gleefully. The youths’ caterwauling quickly brought the men to their feet. When they recognized McTavish, they burst into a cheer, and, with a full-throated whoop of his own, McTavish spurred his roan toward the waiting crowd.

  Pike’s fingers momentarily tightened around his rifle, then relaxed when he recognized McTavish’s tactics as nothing more than a form of greeting, a bit of splash and color in an otherwise dreary world. Not much different, he reflected, from the way he’d seen lonely trappers come into rendezvous in the mountains, ki-yiing at the tops of their lungs, firing their rifles into the air, half froze for companionship.

  McTavish slid his horse to a dirt-showering stop, leaping clear of the saddle even as the dust continued to rise around the stallion’s rear legs. Several of the half-breeds were forced to skip out of the way to avoid the roan’s flashing hoofs, although it didn’t seem to dampen anyone’s enthusiasm. Even Big John was laughing and shouting like a kid, throwing his arms around two or three of them at once, slapping others on the back or shoulder. His brogue-heavy voice rose above the clamor of the crowd.