Beneath a Hunter's Moon

by Michael Zimmer

  He remembered even less of Celine in those years. She had been a sprig even then, always standing back as if afraid of being trampled by the adults, a shy, quiet child who always seemed to prefer to play alone, rather than partake in more rambunctious adventures with the other children.

  Alec, of course, had been little more than an infant, barely walking, and Angus had already left for the plains. It was possible he was even dead by then, although Gabriel supposed he would never know for sure. He’d been too young himself, the adult world far too complicated. In those days it had been easier just to drift along with the shifting currents.

  Gabriel had only one truly clear image of Angus Gilray, but it was as vivid as any portrait. It was of the last time he had seen his father. A morning, it had been, with a covering of snow on the ground and the sun just peeping over the rim of the valley. Angus had been mounted on a big blood bay that seemed gigantic in memory, with a string of three or four pack horses stretched out behind it. Gabriel could still picture the bulky, buffalo-robe coat Angus had worn that day, the coyote-fur cap with its leather visor jutting out above the bright blue chips of his eyes, the reddish-blond hair that had flowed over his collar. His father’s smile had been wide and unnaturally bright that morning, residing within the brush of his beard like tiny tombstones lined up side-by-side amid a tangle of russet weeds.

  In the picture Gabriel harbored in his mind, Isabella stood at the blood bay’s side with one hand resting on Angus’s knee, forcing a smile past some uneasiness Gabriel hadn’t understood. He could remember himself, too, standing with sleep-mucked eyes in the oval door of a hide teepee, wrapped in a heavy wool blanket, cold despite its weight. The image ended there, with no one moving except himself as he rubbed his eyes. He didn’t know why that one scene remained so clear. He was never as sure with any of the other memories that flickered through his consciousness, never certain whether they were real or just illusions created by the words of others.

  Angus had left in early spring, riding southwest to trade with some of the Missouri River tribes. When he hadn’t returned by fall, Isabella had taken Gabriel and Alec to Big John’s cabin for the winter. By the following spring they had pretty well given up hope of his returning, although Big John had traveled to the Mandan and Hidatsa villages at the mouth of the Knife River, then on to the Mandans at Fort Clark, to inquire about his old friend. No one had seen him, and afterward Big John had risked his life to go among the Sioux, but Angus hadn’t shown up there, either.

  If not for an odd set of circumstances, they probably never would have found out what had happened. It was several years later when a bois brûle wandering south of the Missouri met a party of Cheyenne warriors trailing a band of Crees, who had stolen some ponies from them. One of the Cheyennes was carrying an engraved powder horn that he showed to the bois brûle for translation. The bois brûle couldn’t read, but he recognized the horn and traded the Cheyenne another horn and some extra powder for it. The Cheyenne claimed to have taken the horn from a Pawnee he’d killed in battle the year before.

  It was several months later before the bois brûle returned to the Red River Valley, going out of his way to pass by Big John’s cabin on the Tongue. He’d handed the powder horn to Big John almost reverently, and Big John had gotten a funny, twisted look on his face when he read the inscription scratched on its white surface. After what seemed an eternity, he’d looked at Gabriel and said: “Come here, lad.”

  Reluctantly he had.

  “Do ye remember this?” Big John asked, holding the horn out for Gabriel to see.

  He hadn’t, but thought he ought to agree, anyway. Big John must have sensed his lie.

  “’Twas ye pa’s horn, Gabriel,” he said, his voice trembling ever so slightly. “These scratchin’s here, that be writin’, like what the traders put down in their ledgers, and what ye’ll be learnin’ yeself when ye get a little older. Ye pa put this writin’ down with the tip of his knife, most like.”

  Understanding struck him at last, and he’d looked at the older man and asked in his little boy’s voice: “What does it say, Big John?”

  “Says… ‘The Pawnee have shot me, and I’ll soon be dead.’ Says… ‘May whoever finds this horn deliver it to J. McTavish, Red River Settlement, Tongue River.’” Big John had closed his eyes, his voice catching. Then he opened them and went on.

  “It says ’twas the Pawnees what kilt ye pa, lad, but he wanted ye to know he was thinkin’ of ye. Ye can be sure of that, or he wouldn’t have scratched these words like he did. ’Twas for ye, sure, and ye ma and Alec that he did this. Ye hear me, Gabriel. ’Twas for his sons and his wife, and the love he felt for them.”

  Gabriel heard. Even now, he still heard.

  That was the first time he’d ever seen Big John cry, for all that it was no more than a few piddling tears squeezed out of the corners of his eyes, but it wasn’t the last. It was as if Angus’s note had opened something inside the lanky Scotsman that he’d never been able to close since. It wasn’t a common thing, but it happened from time to time, and there was never any way of foretelling what might set it off. A song, maybe, or the way a colt ran in the spring grass, or the honking of geese moving with the seasons. It wasn’t the circumstances themselves, Gabriel had come to understand, but what they brought back, the memories that must have been as sharp as a winter’s north wind in the old man’s mind.

  The rumble of Big John’s voice interrupted Gabriel’s ruminations, and his fingers slowed on the weave of his reins. Big John and Father Denning were discussing the elections, and Big John was angry. He was trying to convince Father Denning to lend his support to René Turcotte to captain the train, but the priest wasn’t having any of it.

  “I supported Paget because I thought he was the best man for the job,” Father Denning was saying, “and because his leadership will directly affect my own safety on the buffalo ranges. But I won’t use my influence here.”

  “Then why are ye here, man, if not to use ye influence?”

  “Not my influence, John, the Church’s.”

  “And does the Church not care for its wards?”

  “I’m not traveling with this caravan,” Denning replied pointedly. “It would be unfair to those who do if I interfered with their election in any way.”

  “I fear ye may be doin’ them more a disservice by not interferin’ just a wee bit, Father. Breland could win tonight, and such a man as captain would bring trouble to a prolonged hunt. He’s too rigid in his ways. A leader needs to flex now and again, else he breaks, and pulls others down with him.”

  Denning shook his head. “Joseph Breland is a good man. He led the hunt last spring and you were back within the month, your carts filled and no one injured.”

  “’Twas no skill involved in that,” Big John replied dismissingly. “’Twas luck alone. We ran onto buffalo less than a week out. What if we have to trek as far as the Missouri this year? ’Twill take more than luck then!”

  “John,” Denning admonished gently, “we are only going in circles now. I will pray for your caravan no matter who leads, but no more.”

  Big John leaned back in his rocker, arching a brow. “Prayers, Father? I hope ’tis ye own that the Lord hears, and not those of the Sioux, who be prayin’ for fresh scalps this year.”

  “The Lord does not hear the drumbeats of heathens,” Denning said sharply.

  “McTavish,” Isabella scolded.

  “Aye, of course. I’m insultin’ ye faith again, Father. Forgive me.”

  There was a knock at the door, and Big John called: “Come in, and welcome!”

  The door swung open. LaBarge stood there with his hat in hand, looking humbled and uncomfortable by his intrusion.

  “Excuse me, Father, but may I have a word with you?”

  “Of course, Baptiste.” The priest started to rise, but LaBarge quickly waved him back.

  “Non, Father, do not get up. We, some of us, I mean, we were wondering if there would be a Mass tonight?”
/>   “Do you want a Mass tonight?”

  “Yes, if it is proper.”

  Denning’s smile was almost patronizing. “There is no improper time to worship, Baptiste. Yes, there will be a Mass with the wedding. Give me a few minutes.”

  “Oui, thank you, Father. We will move a cart near the fire to serve as an altar.”

  “Very good.”

  “And the election?” Big John asked.

  LaBarge fidgeted nervously. “After the Mass, Big John. We thought it would be better then.”

  “Aye, no doubt,” Big John replied dryly. He stood with Denning and set his dudeen on the mantle.

  “More disapproval, John?” the priest murmured quietly, so that LaBarge wouldn’t overhear. “Tell me, is it only the Church you object to, or is it me?”

  “There’s more to it than personal animosity, Father,” Big John replied. “’Tis a snub they’re givin’ the Protestants tonight, makin’ them wait until after the Mass, and no reason for it.”

  Stiffly Denning said: “I sha’n’t endorse such an argument with an answer. If you’ll excuse me.” He turned and smiled at LaBarge. “Shall we go?”

  LaBarge nodded and ducked outside. Gabriel could see several other men waiting behind him, a couple of them holding candle lanterns to light the priest’s way. Big John followed as far as the door, stopping there with his hand on the frame. Abruptly he called out: “And can I tell Joseph Breland he can count on ye support, Father?”

  Denning whirled, his eyes sparking in the candlelight. “No!” he snapped emphatically. “Never!” He looked suddenly confused as the implication of what he’d said sank in. “I won’t favor any man over another,” he added lamely, but Gabriel thought the damage had already been done. Even if Denning refused publicly to support René Turcotte, he had clearly denounced Joseph Breland.

  “Damn such treachery,” Denning hissed to Big John. He turned and stalked angrily through the waiting bois brûles, his cassock swirling around his ankles.

  Smiling crookedly, Big John closed the door.

  * * * * *

  Gabriel followed Big John out of the cabin, tipping his head back as he shrugged into his old, fringeless leather jacket with its too-short sleeves. “It turns cold again,” he said, his breath puffing translucently against the black, starry sky. “But the days are still warm.”

  “Aye, nearer to hot at times,” Big John agreed distractedly. He was staring at the bois brûle village, clearly uninterested in the weather.

  “Will there be trouble?”

  “I don’t think so, though likely some hard feelin’s. ’Tis best we talk it out now, though. Will ye come with me?”

  “No, I will wait here a while.”

  “Ah, of course.” His expression stiffened. “Well now, enjoy yeself at the Mass, lad, but don’t forget ’tis me daughter ye’re escortin’. I’ll stand for no coltishness on ye part, do ye hear?”

  “I hear you,” Gabriel replied gravely.

  Big John paused, cleared his throat, scratched thoughtfully at the back of his neck, then said: “Well, see that ye do, then.”

  Gabriel watched until Big John had disappeared in the direction of Charles Hallet’s lodge, where a crowd of Protestants had gathered to vent their frustration at having to wait until after the Mass to hold the election. It could be a ticklish situation, Gabriel knew, but politics held little attraction for him tonight. He stepped into the shadows away from the cabin, feeling oddly dry-mouthed and jumpy, the way he had the first time he ran buffalo. His apprehension puzzled him. He’d never felt this way with any of the local girls, those he danced with at parties and festivals during the winter months, or even the bolder among them who he could sometimes coax into a midnight cariole ride, clipping along behind old Solomon, sleigh bells jingling, faces flushed with wind and wine and an intoxicating sense of daring as they’d bumped and touched beneath the heavy, curly-haired buffalo robes.

  But it was only games that they’d played, he and those young ladies of the valley, with rules as old as courtship itself—flirting and teasing, promises never meant to be kept. He sensed that Celine would not be like that, neither childish nor ignorant of a man’s needs. Remembering the way she had looked at him as he’d galloped past that morning, he knew her attraction to him was real. It had caught him off guard at the time, and he’d made a fool of himself by not stopping or meeting her gaze, but it would be different tonight.

  The cabin door swung open and Isabella and Celine stepped out, drawing shawls over their heads. Gabriel froze when he saw his mother. It hadn’t occurred to him that the two women might attend Mass together. Seeing her with Celine quickly undermined much of his determination, but, when they started for the bois brûle camp, he pushed quickly away from the cabin’s wall.

  “Celine.”

  The two women spun as one, and he was afraid for a moment that Celine might scream. Isabella said: “Gabriel?”

  “Yes.” He moved out of the deeper shadows where he had waited.

  “You frightened us.” Isabella sounded perturbed.

  “I did not mean to.” He stepped closer, his eyes on Celine. “I have come to escort you to Mass,” he told her.

  “Celine does not need an escort,” Isabella replied curtly. “You come with us. Hurry, or we will be late.”

  His mother’s automatic assumption that he would follow docilely at her command embarrassed Gabriel. When the women began to turn away, he reached out to grab Celine’s arm. “No,” he said firmly. “She will accompany me.”

  Isabella scowled. “McTavish would not permit it.”

  “I have already spoken with Big John.” Gabriel’s fingers tightened unconsciously on the girl’s arm.

  “You have not asked me,” Celine reminded him. Although she hadn’t pulled away, Gabriel could sense the defiance in her words, was aware of the slight, distancing slant of her body. It hadn’t occurred to him that she might refuse.

  “You come with us,” his mother said. “You may escort us both.”

  Seeing the laughter in Celine’s eyes, Gabriel drew himself up. “No, I will escort Celine alone, if she will permit it.”

  Facing the girl, he dropped her arm and bowed stiffly. “Mademoiselle, will you allow me the honor of escorting you to Mass?”

  The laughter in Celine’s eyes dissolved, and, after a brief pause, she curtsied daintily. “Oui, monsieur, I would be pleased to be escorted by such a handsome gentleman.”

  Isabella huffed loudly at that, but the battle was over. Gabriel fixed her with an unflinching stare to remind her that he was a man grown now, and would tolerate no motherly interference in a man’s business. With disapproval stamped sharply across her face, Isabella hurried away.

  Taking a deep breath, Gabriel turned to Celine. “Shall we go?”

  “Where?”

  “To… to Mass.”

  “Why?” She pushed her shawl back to reveal the dark cascade of her hair. “I hate Mass,” she informed him. “It is all pomp, don’t you think?”

  He shrugged, not really sure what pomp meant.

  “Walk with me to the river,” she said softly.

  Gabriel’s heart quickened as she led him toward the fringe of trees and brush that bordered the Tongue. He searched for something witty to say, some compliment that might please her, but nothing came to mind.

  “You are so quiet,” Celine remarked. Was she teasing him?

  “I… the hunt…” He let the words trail off, not really sure where he would have gone with them, anyway.

  “You have hunted buffalo before?”

  “Yes, many times.”

  “You have your own cart?”

  “Yes. I bought it from Nicolas Quesnelle last summer. He is a great builder. I took it on the hunt last fall, and on the spring hunt this year.”

  “You are a good hunter, no?”

  “I filled my cart on the spring hunt. Ten taureaux from nineteen cows.”

  “Sacre,” she breathed, as if awed by such an accomplishment
—ten heavy bull-hide sacks representing over nine hundred pounds of pemmican. She put her arm through his, pressing it against the side of her breast. “You are a great hunter, then. A true homme du nord.”

  Homme du nord. No one had ever called him that before—a man of the north. It wasn’t true, of course, as he had never been above Fort Douglas, but the implication was clear. It took a special man to trap the Arctic regions, and it was no small praise to be mistaken as one who could.

  Fool, a voice inside his head mocked.

  “I will feel safe to know you are near when we reach the buffalo prairies.” She pulled his arm more firmly against her breast. “The Sioux frighten me.”

  “The Sioux should not attack a bois brûle caravan,” he assured her. “You will be safe as long as you remain close to the carts.”

  Coming to the trees along the river, Gabriel steered her toward a path that wound through the brush to the water’s edge. It was narrow and they should have followed it single file, but Celine stiffened her hold on his arm, forcing him to suffer the scourging of thorns and branches rather than give up the feel of her body pressed against his. For a moment he wondered what it would be like to have a woman such as this, a wife to warm his bed and cook his meals, to make the best pemmican in the valley.

  “Here,” she said, and now it was she who guided him through the shifting patterns of darkness. In the silver-gray moonlight the ground stirred subtly in shadow, the limbs overhead swaying in the evening breeze.

  It was a fishing hole she led him to, a pocket of summer-cured grass ringed by a gooseberry thicket. A narrow gap on the far side allowed access to the muddy waters of the Tongue. When the river ran deep in the spring, it was a fair spot for catfish, but after June it became too shallow, and the larger fish retreated downstream.

  “I found this place on my first day here,” Celine said. She released his arm and walked to the opposite side of the tiny clearing. “It is so peaceful here. I like being alone, don’t you?”