Beneath a Hunter's Moon

by Michael Zimmer

But a twist of fate had changed their plans. Two days before they were to pull out from the main American Fur depot at Fort Union, at the confluence of the Yellowstone and Missouri Rivers, Arch had gotten into a row with an Assiniboine and taken a deep knife wound to his shoulder.

  It was Kenneth McKenzie, the Fort Union factor who presided over all of American Fur’s operations in the interior Northwest, including tiny Fort Piegan, who ordered Pike to go on with Kipp and his engagés while Arch stayed behind to recuperate.

  Pike could still recall the last time he’d seen Arch alive. He’d gone to the tiny room McKenzie had assigned as a temporary hospital ward shortly after dawn to say good-bye. Kipp and his French-Canadians were already pulling out in a small keelboat, but the plan was for Pike to follow along on shore with a string of pack horses. Arch had been slumbering on a pallet on the floor when Pike entered, but he’d come awake at the door’s creak.

  “We’re pulling out,” Pike said without preamble. “You need anything?”

  “A gold mine would set well.”

  “A bucket of gold would be lost on you. You’d just go to Saint Louie and squander it all on whores and foofaraw.”

  “Then get on upriver and leave me alone.”

  Pike smiled, yet he’d felt a trace of uneasiness even then. “You gonna be all right, amigo?” he’d asked.

  Arch nodded, mugging a grin. “Ain’t gonna be my topknot parked out in the middle of Blackfeet country all winter.”

  Pike glanced at the Blackfoot woman Arch had hooked up with after coming into Fort Union that spring. She was still asleep, or feigning so. All he could see was the dark pool of her hair spilling out from under the blankets, the broad, round humps of hip and shoulder. Grinning, he’d said: “You’d best mind your own hair, boy, before that gal decides to lift it while you ain’t looking.”

  Arch had laughed, even though it pained his shoulder to do so. “It ain’t my topknot little Sally Mae’s wantin’, hoss.”

  “Shit,” Pike had replied, feigning disgust, but Arch had only laughed harder, laughed until the pain in his shoulder made him wince. They’d been traveling together a long time.

  It wasn’t until Kipp sent Pike and a couple of engagés back to Fort Union the following spring with a raft laden with furs and buffalo robes that Pike learned of Arch’s disappearance on the Canadian plains. A party of Crees from the Qu’Appelle country had come into Fort Union to trade some wolf pelts for supplies early last November, and a pair of French-Canadian half-breeds had been traveling with them. Arch, healed by then and eager to get started, had returned to Canada with them—unofficially, of course, since international law forbade the trading of furs and supplies across the border. Privately McKenzie had confided to Pike that Arch had gone north at his request to urge other members of the Cree nation to come south to Fort Union in the spring and trade with the Americans.

  If not for a chance encounter with a Blackfoot who had done just that, and who had also wintered with the same band of Crees, Pike probably never would have learned of his partner’s fate. It had been late spring when Pike found Arch’s body, and he’d been on the trail of Duprée and Rubiette ever since.

  A man stepped out of the hide lodge Isabella Gilray had put up when the weather turned cold. Pike moved a hand over his rifle, even though he’d already recognized McTavish by his lumbering, bear-like gait.

  “Are ye still awake, Mister Pike?” the Scotsman called softly. He waited until Pike grunted an affirmative, then came over to squat beside a tall, dished wheel. He moved deliberately and continued to favor his side, but Pike had noticed that, after several days of Isabella’s care, he was beginning to limber up again.

  Taking a pipe from his mouth, McTavish held it between his hands with his elbows resting on his knees and stared across the camp. In a lowered voice, he said: “They found a dead man on the plains today, near where Mister Hallet and them lost that big bull elk.”

  “Jesus, are we just now coming even with that?”

  “Aye, south of there, but about even, I’d say. The carts travel slow, Mister Pike, though I doubt ye need remindin’ of that.”

  “The hell with the carts. Who found him?”

  “Etienne Cyr and Antoine Toussaint. They went north today on a long scout and just got back. They didn’t recognize him so they buried him there, along yon river. Gutshot, he was, with his backbone shattered. ’Twas a pony tethered nearby, gaunted up but not otherwise hurt.”

  “Just shot?” Pike pushed a corner of his robe back to prop himself up on one elbow. “No other wounds?”

  “Just the one was all they mentioned. A huntin’ accident, they figure, and not the first one to happen out here. I don’t believe it meself, but his fusil was empty and that tells me he had his chance. I’ll not question ye further on the matter, nor pass on what I know to the others. I just thought you’d want to know he was found.”

  Pike took a deep breath, then expelled it. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m glad you told me.”

  McTavish’s hands began to move with his pipe, shifting it from one to the other in an absent manner. “I feel trouble brewin’,” he said quietly. “Bubblin’ like tea in a kettle.” He smiled uncertainly, perhaps a little sadly, then went on. “I’ll be askin’ ye of my daughter now, Mister Pike, and expectin’ an honest answer, I will. Do ye have an eye on her as ye mate, what skins and cooks and raises the wee ones? Or… do ye see her as the others do, as a tart and a tramp, and weak in the mind?”

  Even expecting them, McTavish’s words caught Pike off guard. His fingers tightened momentarily around his rifle, then relaxed. “She’s no tramp, McTavish. She’s confused and scared, and I don’t know why she came to me like she did that day we came back. Maybe…” He let the words trail off.

  “Ye’ve talked to her, have ye?”

  “Some.”

  “And what would that have been about?”

  There was an edge to McTavish’s voice now, and Pike remembered how he’d faced down Breland, the skill in which he’d fought One Who Limps. Despite his years and the ready smile, Big John was still a dangerous man, one who wouldn’t tolerate something he felt was unjust or deceiving.

  “She doesn’t like it here,” Pike replied evasively. “She wants to go some place where the lights burn all night. She mentioned Boston.”

  “Boston?” McTavish sounded surprised.

  “I’ve never been there myself, but I hear it’s a fair-size city.”

  “Aye,” McTavish replied distractedly. “I’ve heard such meself, but… I didn’t know.”

  Pike lay back down, pulling the robe over his shoulder. Although he kept his hand on his rifle, he didn’t think he’d have to use it.

  Nearby, a pony snorted and kicked, another squealed at the thud of hoofs against its ribs. Glancing toward the unsettled herd, McTavish said: “They’re restless tonight.”

  “The wind, maybe,” Pike said, although he shared their disquiet, and knew it was something more.

  “Could be.” McTavish stood and returned the pipe to his mouth. Pike thought for a moment he might say more, but after a pause he just walked away.

  Listening closely, Pike was just able to make out the sound of the lodge door rising and falling as Big John entered the teepee. Then he was alone again, with just the mournful humming of the wind for company. He rolled onto his back, thinking of Arch and the shining times they’d had ranging the Rockies from the Pecos River country in the south to the Missouri River up north. They’d pulled in a sight of beaver over the years, and had themselves a hell of a good time doing it. It was hard to think of Arch being gone now, even though Pike had buried the remains himself.

  Despite his melancholy, Pike eventually dozed off, but it was a restless slumber. The rumble of snores from McTavish’s lodge seemed inordinately loud, prodding at the layers of his consciousness until it became a steady pounding, as much felt as…

  * * * * *

  He came awake with a start, his heart racing, his breath short and gasping
, and threw his robes back in such a panic that he scraped his knuckles half raw against the underside of the cart. The sudden blast of cold wind scoured away the last dregs of sleep, but the distant rumbling continued. It took him only a moment to place the sound. At that same instant a Métis guard shouted from outside the carts: “Le bison! Le bison!”

  Within seconds, the camp was awake.

  Scrambling from his robes, Pike stood to peer into the darkness surrounding the circled caravan. Voices rose and fell around him like pieces of cork loosened on choppy waters. Isabella scurried from her lodge and dropped to her knees to feed shredded bark into last evening’s fire. Around the camp, other fires flickered slowly to life.

  McTavish appeared at Pike’s side, shrugging into his red duffel coat. “By the Lord, Mister Pike, I believe ’tis the buffalo that’s found us this year.”

  “To the northwest,” Pike said, pointing with his chin. He felt vaguely disoriented in a darkness made complete by thick clouds, more confused than comforted by the fires sprouting up behind him. The livestock was milling restively, the oxen lowing and the cart horses blowing and whickering. Only the runners seemed unaffected; they stared into the unseeable distance with their small ears perked forward, nostrils flaring as they drank in the scent of the herd.

  “Aye, and with luck they’ll pass to the west of us,” McTavish said after a moment. “But we’ll keep the fires burnin’, just in case. I’d hate to see a second herd stumble into us in the dark. ’Tis best not to take a chance when they’re on the move like this.”

  Pike nodded. On the move, a herd of buffalo was like a slow twister, not so much destructive for destruction’s sake, but just huge and unyielding, those animals caught at the front of the herd forced onward by the hundreds or thousands, or sometimes tens of thousands, behind them. Even coming on at a slow jog, like these were, they would have been hard to turn had they approached the cordon straight on.

  Pike was gripping the cart’s slats with both hands, heedless to the cold wind that pierced his shirt. He stared hypnotically into the ebony distance as the musky odor of the herd washed over the camp. The earth beneath the leather soles of his moccasins vibrated against his feet, and faintly he began to hear the brittle clatter of the buffaloes’ short black horns, clacking together like bones in a basket. The front of the herd drew even with the carts somewhere to the west, but, from the sound and sharpening scent, Pike could tell the rear of the herd was much broader, edging steadily closer.

  The women had their fires roaring now, reckless with their precious supply of wood as the danger of being overrun increased. Others came to stand with Pike, gazing over the tops of the carts at the fluctuating wall of darkness that was being edged gradually backward as the flames leaped higher. A few of the older boys were moving through the agitated livestock, crooning gentle French ballads in an attempt to soothe the animals’ nerves. The guards who had been stationed on the prairie began to drift in, their faces anxious. They remained outside the carts, however, and, after a couple of minutes, others joined them. Grabbing his rifle and capote, Pike followed, though staying off to one side.

  The sound of the herd seemed to overwhelm the camp, drowning out all other noises, dominating the senses. Dust and débris churned up by hoofs and carried on the wind began to pepper Pike’s face. As he stared intently into the darkness, he began to discern a slight shifting of the horizon, just beyond the rim of light. It reminded him of a river’s shore seen from the deck of a raft, the backward slide of the bank being buffalo now, humped and surging, and a prickle of concern skittered up both arms to terminate at his scalp. From time to time a horn made slick by rubbing in the dirt or against rocks or trees would catch the light just right and glint fleetingly, and occasionally a buffalo would stray from the herd and wander into the light, its small eyes glimmering red before it spooked away from the unfamiliar scent of the Métis camp. Pike could sense the herd adjusting itself to this new obstruction, the nearest animals attempting to veer away as much as possible, while the herd itself bulged above them like backwater. Soon now the buffalo would have to split. Either that or overrun the camp.

  A blunt horn—an old cow with horns dulled by years of digging and rubbing—wandered into the light above the camp and stopped in confusion. Pike could see others behind it, pressed reluctantly forward by those still farther back. A bull roared challengingly and shook its massive head. A cow snorted and tried to dodge away, but was thrown back into the light by the bulk of the herd. A few darted uncertainly to the east, but only a few. The line of buffalo that was the slowing bulge pressed steadily nearer.

  From the entrenched carts, a child began to cry. Then someone spat—“Enfant de grâce.”—in a taut voice. Baptiste LaBarge stepped clear of the knot of hunters and dropped to one knee. He brought his fusil up, sighted quickly, and fired. The blunt horn bellowed and jumped, then its front legs buckled and it fell, kicking.

  There were several small but hopeful cheers as a number of cows crossed quickly to the east. A second fusil boomed and the bull that had challenged them grunted sharply at the slug’s impact, then ran after the cows. Like a causeway suddenly breeching, other bison followed. As the herd began to split around the camp its pace picked up again. The image was still that of a river, Pike thought, but now it flowed seamlessly on either side of them, before rejoining somewhere to the south and leaving in its center a tiny island of humanity.

  With the danger mostly past, several of the hunters began firing into the herd at will, choosing their targets from the strays that wandered into the wind-flaring light. In the poor light, not all of the hits were solid, and Pike knew that by morning they would find dead and dying buffalo strewn far to the south.

  It took the better part of an hour for the herd to pass, the rumble of hoofs and horns shifting gradually to the south. At the fringes of the light from the still-blazing fires, Pike began to see the smaller forms of the wolves that always followed the buffalo, slinking among the dead as if puzzled by this unexpected offering. Beyond the light, the low, savage snarls of the wolves as they tore at the meat of the dead bison touched a primeval chord, and he shivered as if chilled.

  The hunters noticed the wolves, too, and with scattered curses they turned their fusils on the wily canines, driving them back into the darkness. But the wolves refused to abandon the field, and soon their forlorn howls rose like ghosts from beyond the barrier of light, building steadily as more and more were drawn to the scent of blood.

  The howling of the wolves frightened the livestock even more than the buffalo had, and several of the half-breeds had to hurry back inside the carts to calm the panicking oxen and horses. Others, meanwhile, rushed onto the prairie, firing at the leaping wolves or swinging at them with their empty long guns. Behind the men came the women with their knives and kettles, although they seemed less concerned with the havoc being created by the wolves than their men were. Prattling cheerfully, they moved among the fallen bison to begin their butchering. Pike understood their satisfaction. Once again, there was enough meat to fill the bellies of their children, to take away the worry of the next day’s meal.

  “You did not shoot.”

  He turned to find Celine standing just outside the carts, silhouetted by firelight.

  “I was afraid that you hated me,” she went on, changing the subject before he could reply. “You acted like it when you returned from fighting the Chippewas.”

  “I guess you caught me by surprise,” he admitted. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

  Thinking back to the way she’d come barreling out from between the carts brought back some of what he’d felt then. He’d thought at first she was angry about what had happened at the lake, and his first instinct had been to raise his rifle in defense against whatever weapon she might be carrying—a knife or a tomahawk—but her intent had been just the opposite, the feelings she’d expressed for him almost embarrassing in front of the others. Although he hadn’t bought into it himself, he suspected most of the othe
rs had.

  “I was happy to see you,” she said. “Now you avoid me.”

  He had been avoiding her, in fact, unsure of his own feelings, as well as his loyalty to Big John. But seeing the round swell of her hips etched against the light, he knew he wanted her again. His desire made him bold. “We ought to find some place quiet, where we can talk,” he said, his voice growing thick.

  “We can talk here.”

  “Not here.”

  She hesitated, then glanced over her shoulder. “He watches. Like a dumb, faithful dog.”

  Pike looked. Gabriel stood next to the carts, staring at them with undisguised distrust. “The hell with him,” Pike growled.

  Pulling her shawl tighter, Celine stepped close and said: “They frightened me.” She tipped her head toward the fallen bison. “I did not think they would come so close to our fires.”

  “Buff’ ain’t afraid of much,” Pike allowed. “Not bunched up and on the move like that. Most of the herd probably didn’t even know we were here.”

  “You are so wise,” she said a little breathlessly. She’d quartered around until he could see the firelight dancing in her eyes. Her face, honed by the flickering shadows, looked solemn. Reaching out to rest her finger lightly against his chest, she said: “So brave. A true hunter, no?”

  Her fingers were like tiny coals burning through his shirt, and he shivered and blamed it on the cold. Then he shook his head and laughed. He had never met anyone like Celine before. She was young—God, he knew that—but looking into her eyes was like looking into the soul of a battle-hardened warrior.

  “You laugh,” she pouted.

  “Not at you,” he promised. “At the night.” He took her arm and gave it a little tug. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

  “What?”

  He grinned recklessly. “Nothing you ain’t already seen. Come on.”

  “No.” She pulled away.

  From the corner of his eye Pike saw Gabriel start toward them. He turned, stopping the boy with a hard look.

  “He is jealous,” Celine said softly, watching Gabriel with a hint of a smile on her lips.