Sitting in the sun nearby, Big John quietly smoked his pipe while the women busied themselves with the meat and hides. Celine toiled docilely alongside Isabella, withdrawn but efficient. She wore a Cree dress of blue wool today, decorated with silk ribbons sewn across the bodice. Last night Isabella had washed the girl’s old, blood-spattered outfit as best she could in the slough, then hung it from the lodge liner to dry, despite Big John’s suggestion that she burn it. He knew he would never be able to look at that dress again without envisioning Celine as she had been when Lizette brought her to him.
The feeling of melancholy that had begun to engulf him last night deepened. Etienne Cyr’s absence loomed over the camp, and the twin enigmas that were Celine and Alec were like splinters in his shirt, pricking his flesh every time he moved. But he knew there was more to his depression than that. The truth was, his knees hurt and his back ached, and looking at the pipe in his hand generated only a blurred, cream-colored smear.
I’m growing old, he reflected in something like surprise. Old and losing my children, and my life is changing forever.
He wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.
He was also just beginning to realize that he was losing his position of leadership within the Métis community, although that didn’t bother him as much as he once would have imagined. His constant warnings about the decline of the buffalo, and overhunting in general, plus his unyielding stance toward Hudson’s Bay, weren’t helping his cause any. But what really hurt was that he seemed to be losing the respect of some of the Métis. Not all of them, for sure, but a few.
Respect was a thing Big John had always taken for granted, and he was discovering that its loss, no matter how minute at the moment, struck a chord of uncertainty within him, a fear for the future. What would tomorrow hold, he pondered, when all he had ever cared about appeared to be slipping irretrievably away?
* * * * *
Gabriel sat cross-legged on his bedroll inside the lodge, lazily tending to the fire where he was melting a pig of lead in a small iron pot to run some balls for his musket. He barely looked up when Alec ducked through the entrance and flopped down against the wall across from him.
“I am leaving as soon as we return to the valley,” Alec stated boldly.
Carefully Gabriel spooned the multi-hued dross from the top of the bright silver liquid, giving himself a moment to think. A year ago, he might have guffawed at his brother’s declaration. Today he took the threat seriously. “Where?” he asked without looking up.
“To the North country. I will work for Hudson’s Bay.”
“A thousand men would work for Hudson’s Bay if the jobs were available. What makes you think they would hire you?”
“Because I am young and a hard worker, and because I know how to read and write and figure.”
“Not so good, the figuring, though?”
“It does not matter. I will not stay with McTavish another year.”
Gabriel nodded, but kept his eyes on the low flames. He knew Big John had made a mistake in taking the pinto from Alec, humiliating him in front of his peers.
“Or maybe I will become a voyageur,” Alec said. “I will go to Montreal and horn the girls plenty.”
Gabriel laughed. “What do you know of horning girls?”
Alec’s smile faded. “I know you should be horning Susanne Leveille, instead of rutting after the dim one. It does not seem right, anyway. She is Big John’s daughter.”
“I am not Big John’s son. Neither are you.”
“Maybe, but it still does not seem right. Even Isidore says so, and he is stupid.”
“Then why do you listen to what Isidore says?”
“It is also what Charlo says,” Alec replied somberly. “Charlo, Gabriel.”
Gabriel leaned forward to nudge the melting pot closer to the flame. Staring at the softening lead, he said: “Charlo does not know everything.”
“Once you thought he did.”
And not that long ago, either, Gabriel acknowledged to himself. But things had changed recently, and he was no longer sure what he believed. He supposed his feelings toward Celine were foolish, especially in light of the way she acted around Pike, but down deep he thought she was only frightened, and that sooner or later she would realize that she was wrong about Pike, and about him, too.
“Do you believe she bathed in the blood,” Alec asked, “and wallowed in the intestines?”
“No,” Gabriel replied, looking up in disgust. “That is the foolish cackling of gossips. I remember the first time you butchered a deer. You made a fine mess of it.”
“I knew enough not to stick my hands in blood up to my elbows,” Alec countered. “Besides, Lizette Hallet saw her.”
“Lizette Hallet hates Celine. They all do, but not because she is dim. They hate her because she is different, because she doesn’t know how to butcher a buffalo or make pemmican or tan a robe. And because once her life was easier than theirs.”
Alec shrugged, and Gabriel knew he had already dismissed the subject of Celine McTavish. “As soon as we return, I will go to Fort Douglas and find work. Then next spring I will harvest my own buffalo. Maybe I will go to the Saskatchewan District and hunt there.”
“Or maybe you will be back on the Tongue, asking Big John if he will feed you,” Gabriel replied.
Laughing, Alec said: “I just wanted you to know that you can come with me, if you want.”
“I don’t need you to tell me where I can go. I do as I choose.”
Alec shrugged and pushed to his feet, exiting the lodge but leaving the antelope hide back, the cold air pouring in. Gabriel watched until he turned from sight behind Quesnelle’s teepee, then pulled the pot off the fire and brought out his ladle.
Chapter Eighteen
Pike’s nose ran and his eyes watered. Cursing the icy blasts of wind that sliced down over the plain from the northwest, he scanned the flat thread of the horizon. His lips curled back in distaste. It was an empty land they traveled through, made all the more desolate by the season, that time between fall and winter when everything, even a man’s spirit, seems gray and lifeless.
To the south, the cart train was creeping across a broad, shallow basin, the shrieks of its many wheels mercifully silenced by distance and a stiff, quartering wind. The caravan was formed into three stubby columns today, as it had been ever since they’d departed the broken country around Chain of Lakes. The spare stock brought up the rear like a huge oval rug being pulled behind the carts.
The caravan was angling west by southwest toward a place called Turtle Lake, where McTavish claimed there would be a smattering of trees to give the country perspective, and plenty of clean water if the buffalo hadn’t gotten there first to foul it. It was four days now since the hunt, and neither Etienne Cyr nor Joseph Breland and his eight had returned.
With his head turned to watch the caravan, Pike thought he caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye, to his rear. He twisted in the saddle to stare back the way they’d come, but nothing stirred on the barren plain. Yet the impression remained, and he stopped the bay and swung it around to face east. Nearly a quarter of a mile in front of him, Jacques Leveille saw him pause and reined up his own horse. After a couple of minutes, the goateed half-breed loped back to join him.
“You see something?” Leveille queried, pulling up.
“Maybe,” Pike replied, rubbing the stiff wool of his sleeve under his dripping nose. Leveille looked doubtful but kept his opinions to himself. After another few minutes, Pike shrugged. “Maybe not,” he allowed.
“What was it?” Leveille asked.
“I thought I saw something move.”
Leveille continued to stare along their back trail. Pike thought he looked more worried now. Pike felt the same way, an uneasiness he couldn’t put his finger on was toying with his scalp.
“Sioux?” Leveille asked.
“I don’t see anything now.”
“To tell you the truth, mon ami, that kind of worries me.”
“Sacre bleu,” Leveille responded dryly. “It was no trick, Monsieur Pike.”
Pike looked again, and his mouth went dry. Leveille watched a moment longer, as if mesmerized, then with a terrified squawk he jerked his horse around and quirted for the caravan, shouting: “Aux armes! Aux armes! Voila les Sioux! Les Sioux! Voila les Sioux! Aux armes!”
Pike held the bay back a while longer, staring at a horizon that seemed to spit up feathered horsemen by the dozens. Then he swore, softly and in awe, and raced after Leveille.
Curling himself over the broad, mesquite horn of his Mexican saddle, Pike raked the bay’s ribs with his spurs. He kept glancing over his left shoulder as the bay stretched out toward the distant caravan. He estimated at least two hundred warriors were charging down on the cart train. He could see the brittle glint of sunlight flashing off steel lance heads, the blue sheen of fusil barrels, the occasional sparkle of a polished sword. The Sioux were coming on with everything they had, howling their war cries.
Turcotte was already running the carts into a circle, tailgates butting the earth, wheels lashed together with rawhide and rope, shafts projecting skyward like the spears of an ancient army. The herdsmen were driving the extra stock into the corral of carts even before the circle was completed. It took only minutes for the Métis to enclose themselves and their animals. After that, it was only a matter of stuffing dried buffalo meat, wooden cassettes, and bundled hides into the larger gaps, then finding a hole to shoot through. They would be ready by the time the Sioux came within range, but it wasn’t the mixed-bloods sheltered behind the carts that the Indians were after now.
Eyeing the forward line of warriors, those on the fastest ponies, Pike tried to gauge the bay’s speed against theirs. With a sinking sensation, he knew the bay would never make it. The little gelding was giving everything he had, but he was too small, his legs too short, and, although the caravan was less than five hundred yards away, the Sioux were one hundred yards less than that on his left, coming at the train from its rear.
Most of the Métis guardsmen were already in. Only the flankers—Leveille and Pike on the north, a couple of others to the south—were still out. The bulk of the Sioux war party was trailing perhaps thirty warriors who rode the swiftest mounts, and Pike figured it would be one of these who would raise his hair if anyone did.
A few ineffectual rounds were already being fired from the caravan, although they were mostly for effect. The Sioux were intimately acquainted with the Métis’ marksmanship within the limited range of their smoothbored trade guns, and were even now veering wide to avoid drawing too close.
The advance group of thirty had split to skirt the train on the north and south. That left slightly more than a dozen yipping warriors pressing forward to cut off Pike’s escape. Leveille had already passed through that protective ring of the half-breeds’ fusils, but Pike had held back too long when the Sioux first appeared. He judged now that at least three of the dozen or so warriors riding down on him would intercept him before he passed within range of the Métis’ weapons.
As the gap closed, Pike began to pick out details. The lead warrior was a tall, broad-chested man with a lance in one hand, a painted, buffalo-hide war shield in the other; a bow and quiver of arrows were slanted across his back. He rode a long-legged black horse that was dotted with silver-dollar-size vermillion spots across its chest and down both front legs as far as its knees.
The other two Indians carried flintlocks, although both of them also bore bows and quivers. The outside brave rode a sorrel nearly the match of McTavish’s big roan, the other a gray that was also covered in designs of vermillion and yellow. These three were about forty yards ahead of their nearest followers, and, when Pike was sure he wouldn’t be able to outrun them, he swerved the bay toward them in a sally that caught all three warriors off guard.
Even though he knew a shot would be chancy, Pike figured it was worth the risk. He threw the rifle to his shoulder, and, when the lead warrior’s black horse bobbed into view at the end of the barrel, he pulled the trigger.
There wasn’t time to reload. The black horse squealed as it went down, throwing its rider over its head. Using the crippled animal as a shield—keeping the bay behind it for no more than a few seconds, yet time enough to break the stride of the other two horses and buy himself a few precious yards—Pike reined toward the caravan.
But a few seconds wasn’t enough. The brave on the sorrel closed next. Leveling his fusil from less than a dozen yards away, he triggered a shot that was impossible to dodge. Pike felt the tug and burn of the ball as it seared his ribs, and stifled a cry. He didn’t try to examine it. What was done was done. He would have to fight with everything he had, and worry about the damage later.
As the sorrel pounded closer, Pike abruptly reined the bay into it, slamming the butt of his rifle against the side of the animal’s head. At that same instant, the warrior leaned forward to bring his empty fusil down like a club. The round blue barrel slammed into Pike’s thigh, skidding along his leg in an explosion of pain that blossomed in his left knee. The Indian swung again but Pike deflected the blow with his rifle this time. Then the sorrel’s front legs buckled and it dropped unexpectedly from the bay’s side.
Before Pike could glance back to see what had happened, the rider on the gray touched off his charge. There was another quick burst of pain, this time in his hip, and he grunted loudly and nearly tumbled from the saddle until he grabbed the horn and pulled himself upright. But the bay never broke stride, and, before the warrior on the gray could bring his mount any closer, they had passed through that indistinct ring of relative safety within the range of the half-breeds’ weapons.
A ragged volley was loosened from the wall of carts. Pike heard the thumping whine of lead passing on his left like a swarm of bees. The warrior on the gray must have heard it, too, because he suddenly pulled away, angling back out of range. For the first time since his race for the carts began, Pike started to think he might have a chance. The caravan was less than eighty yards away and the Sioux were pulling back. Leveille was already swinging down, securing his pony to an axle. Soon his fusil would add to the covering fire.
So convinced was Pike that he was going to reach the carts that, for a second, he couldn’t comprehend the stubby war arrow that thunked solidly into the bay’s dusty hide just behind its shoulder. The horse stumbled and almost went down. Sawing back on the reins, Pike managed to bring the gelding to its feet. But the wound was severe, and after a few more faltering strides, the bay started to fall. This time, Pike couldn’t keep the horse up. As the bay began its long slope onto the ground, Pike tried to kick free of the heavy wooden stirrups, but his left leg refused to work properly, and he was still trying to push away when the ground came up like a sledge-hammer.
Bloodied and dazed, Pike eased onto one elbow. He heard a distant crack, like the pop of a teamster’s bullwhip, then several more in quick succession. A lead ball smacked into the earth a couple of feet in front of him, and suddenly the world snapped back into focus. Pushing to his hands and his good knee, he scrambled toward his downed horse. His rifle lay nearby and he grabbed it on the way, then dived into the curl of the dead pony’s legs. Twisting around to a sitting position, he quickly reloaded.
Most of the Sioux had seemed willing to give up on him while he’d been mounted, but, with the bay’s fall, they were returning. Although Pike was too close to the deadly guns of the half-breeds for the Indians to try to overrun him with one fatal charge, they continued to harass him by urging their horses in close enough to loosen an arrow or two or touch off a fusil before curving back out of range. The ground surrounding the bay was soon stubbled with a crop of arrows, the sod ripped and torn by gunfire.
Grimly Pike slid his flintlock across the bay’s shoulder. A Sioux on a short-coupled dun was galloping toward him, coming close enough to let fly an arrow that thudded into the frame of his saddle. Lining his sights on the brave’s torso, Pike squeezed the trigger. When the smoke cleared, he saw the Sioux sprawled limply in the short grass. Yet it seemed a shallow triumph; no sooner did he fire than a dozen others raced in to finish him off before he could reload. Only a ragged volley from the caravan stopped them.
In the east, Pike noticed a growing number of warriors dropping out of the battle. With the advantage of surprise lost, their chances of routing the half-breeds would be slim, at best. Still, Pike knew the fight was far from won. Even from his crouched position behind the bay, several hundred yards away, he could see the animated gestures of a number of warriors pressing for another charge.
“Sons-of-bitches,” he muttered, snapping the frizzen closed over a freshly primed pan.
There was a shout from the caravan. Pike glanced over his shoulder to see Jacques Leveille’s horse pounding toward him, hoofs flashing above the tawny plain. Pike’s fingers tightened around the stock of his rifle, and he closed his eyes in a moment of overwhelming gratitude. Here was an unexpected second chance—if they could pull it off.
Already a few warriors were racing in from the opposite direction, and it occurred to Pike that this was an unanticipated opportunity for the Sioux, as well—two fine scalps and maybe a good Métis buffalo runner, to boot.
Clouds of powder smoke began to mushroom along the line of carts as the Sioux drew close. Pike pushed to his feet, sucking in his breath as a fresh burst of pain surged along his left leg from groin to knee. Stubbornly he plunged toward the carts in an awkward, lurching run, while the drumming of hoofs grew louder from behind. At the last minute he spun and threw the rifle to his shoulder, snapping off a shot that spilled a warrior from his horse. Then he turned to the carts and Leveille’s horse was there, but it wasn’t Leveille riding it.
“Get on!” Gabriel shouted, pulling the horse down to pivot it tightly around Pike. Pike grabbed the half-breed’s waist, then let the momentum of the wheeling pony help yank him up. With his injured leg gone nearly to rubber, he almost didn’t make it, but then he latched onto Gabriel’s sash with his other hand and jack-knifed up behind the saddle.
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