The Snake River

by Win Blevins

  He thought of his plan. Meant to save six of the best horses for Sima. Give the boy something to take back to his tribe, making things all right at home. Man couldn’t live on the outs with his blood relations. But he could take care of his obligations and move on.

  “Flare.”

  A soft voice.

  “Flare.”

  Craw’s voice.

  “Come.”

  Craw walked close, sat. He got out the white clay pipe he still carried in a gage d’amour around his neck. Loaded up, handed Flare the tobacco. Flare loaded up his own pipe.

  “Murph relieved me. Want to jaw a little.”

  Flare waited. He supposed it was such tame country he could talk on watch. Too bad, in a way. They used a lucifer to fire up.

  “Garrett wants to go to trapping.”

  “Nothing there, Craw. Beaver’s a dollar a pound.”

  “I told him that.”

  “Here Before Christ will hire him.” It was the American trappers’ bitter name for the Hudson’s Bay Company, which always insisted its rights were prior to anybody’s.

  “Doing what?”

  “Sailor on the timber boats. Back and forth to the Sandwich Islands. Winsome lasses there, they say, Craw.”

  “I’ll tell him. All of it. Believe he’d rather go mining.”

  Flare puffed and sat and looked at the stars.

  “What were we after, Craw?”

  “Making the blood sing.”

  “Why doesn’t it sing anymore?”

  “Does for me, Flare. Slower maybe. Different tune, for sure.”

  “We killed a lad, Craw.” Meaning Innie. “Two lads, truly.” The Klamath sentry, too.

  “Life looks cheap when you’re young. ’Pears a long stretch, too.”

  “Was it worth it?” Flare asked.

  “Half a year’s wage, coupla months’ work.”

  Flare tapped the ashes out of his pipe. “Why do things seem so sour to me? Getting old?”

  “Might be. ’Nother word for getting old is growing up.”

  Flare gave him a silly grin in the dark. “Never tried that.”

  To Dr. Full’s gratification, Billy Wells and the others rode in early on Sunday afternoon. The community welcomed them warmly, and some of the women got together a second dinner, side meat, sop, and other things the travelers hadn’t eaten for weeks. That night the men reported their progress to the congregation, and it sounded splendid.

  As he listened, what Dr. Full really thought was how splendid was Billy Wells. Put in charge of a difficult project, Billy had come through. He looked good—three weeks of clearing trees had shaped him up. He had a new air of authority, the sort that comes to a man growing into what he should do, what God asks him to do. He had a clear eye. His manner was not so insinuating as before—he was a little more direct.

  Dr. Full was very satisfied. That’s why, when Billy came to him with that special request after church that evening, Dr. Full said they must discuss it with the deacons tomorrow morning. Billy would be reporting to them anyway, decisions would be made about funding for the mission, and how many colonists to send there, and who would go. They could bring it up after all that business.

  Privately, Full thought it was a good idea. A very good idea.

  Billy Wells had a flair for the dramatic.

  He, the deacons, and Dr. Full spent all morning working out the plan for the Dalles mission, practical men working out practical affairs. The deacons did not always know God’s will, as Dr. Full seemed to, but they knew something about how to build a wilderness outpost and make it work. After two hours, things were in good shape.

  That’s when Billy made his surprising request. “Gentlemen, I want to take a new wife to the Dalles.”

  The deacons looked at each other uncertainly. Parky said, “Billy, appears to me she’s spoke to that,” and everyone chuckled. The community hadn’t been able to do much chuckling about Miss Jewel lately.

  Billy grinned and gave an elaborate shrug. “Let’s let her speak for herself.”

  He opened the church door and jerked his head.

  Elvira Upping stepped into the doorway.

  Billy and Elvira held hands sometimes, and looked at each other fondly, and told the deacons how they had discovered each other. Billy said Elvira had come to him as a great comfort after his fall, and helped him set his feet on the right path again.

  “I saw the light of the Lord shining forth in him,” she explained. “He was washed in the blood of the Lamb. At first I just wanted to show him my personal support as a Christian. But soon God led me to see how he and I—”

  “We’ve each spent the last three weeks praying about it, far apart, and we feel led to it,” Billy said. “There’s not much more to say than that. We feel led to it.”

  While the couple sat outside, awaiting their decision, the deacons debated only briefly. Parky was dubious. He asked sharply, “Samuel, do you know what on earth you’re doing?”

  Dr. Full choked back his anger. He’d never been able to get Parky to show respect consistently, or even to be uniform in addressing him properly. In a carefully curbed voice, he said they all should submit to where God was leading them.

  Parky let it go.

  The deacons were practical men, men with some years of experience with marriage. They liked the way the young folks mooned at each other. They thought God meant man and woman to get paired up. They weren’t so sure it made that much difference which one you paired up with. And they damn well thought a fellow starting a new mission in the wilderness was best supported by a helpmate.

  Billy and Elvira were told they might have the ceremony Saturday, kneel with the community on Sunday to ask God’s blessing on their enterprise, and head back to the Dalles Monday morning and get to work.

  The mountain men, plus Garrett, drove the horses into French Prairie just before sunset on a perfect spring day, the wind gentle, the sky robin’s-egg blue. Flare felt like the setting sun was shattering an exquisite afternoon.

  The Frenchies said how glad they were to see all that fine horseflesh. Tomorrow they’d trade, and tomorrow night hold a feast and a dance to celebrate skinning the Americans.

  Skye led the boys off to get drunk. The only two who didn’t want to drink, Flare and Craw, stayed with the horses.

  This time it was Flare who brought out clay pipe and tobacco. He’d been wondering about it since the other night. “How come you upped and left the mountains all of a sudden, Craw? Didn’t even wait for rendezvous, as I recall.”

  Craw snorted a laugh. “Don’t exactly know. Felt different. Everything. Real different.”

  He looked around a little, lit his pipe, pondered. Flare waited.

  “You recollect the spring of ’34? We was on the Madison? High up?”

  Flare nodded.

  “Handy died, remember?”

  Flare remembered. Craw and Handy paired up and trapped up toward some of the boiling springs. Handy, who was called that for a reason Flare never knew, went exploring and broke through the crust of the earth and put both legs into some of that hot water. Craw brought him into camp on a travois. After about a week his legs got all inflamed and he got a high fever and died.

  “It was then I started thinking of going somewhere else, doing something else, didn’t know what. Just dissatisfied.

  “I hadn’t known Handy much afore I paired with him that time, but he had a Bannock wife and a little boy. They were with her folks over to Henry’s Lake at the time. He hated to be away from that boy. Kept talking about staying with that bunch of Bannocks all the time and…doing whatever. I wondered then. Whatever didn’t seem like enough for a white man to do, but Handy wanted to do it.

  “When we buried him, I got to thinking on what he’d done, and what he wanted to do, and the want he got left with. What he’d done was grow up to be man-sized and then fight and fuck all over Injun country, blood runnin’ high. Then look around to see what was next, and…” Craw made a scissors motion
with his fingers.

  “I had my woman, just Helen then, hadn’t got together with Pine yet, plus Garrett and Isabelle. Susie’s out of Pine. I began to think about that.” His fingers scissored again. “Wanted to do something else. Something more. Didn’t know what.” He shook his head, chuckled at himself. “Californy,” he said, and grinned at Flare.

  “What have you done?”

  Craw looked away. Kept his head turned. Looked back. “Reared my children up to be human beings,” he said.

  Flare sat, fidgeted. “Mine grew up without me. Whoever they are, wherever they are.”

  Craw nodded, puffed. “They do that,” he said. “Mine grew up most of the way while this child was trying to outwit beaver. You know what, though? When you teach someone to be a grown-up, you learn yourself how to be one.” He gave an embarrassed grin. “Might even act like it sometimes.”

  “If you try it, do you like it?”

  Craw grinned foolishly and shrugged. “It’s like there’s stages. You’re a kid and you play kids’ games, and that feels good. Then you’re a young buck and you play grown-up boys’ games, and that feels grand. I don’t hold with those as never goes adventurin’.”

  “Fight and fuck all over Injun country,” said Flare uncertainly.

  “That shines. Then one day you ain’t a young buck, and young bucks’ games don’t feel like enough. You want…Helen and Pine and Garrett and Isabelle and Susie.”

  He gave a wry look. Flare let it sit.

  “Craw,” said Flare, “I’m gonna dub you Sir Nut.”

  “Naw,” protested Craw. “Na-a-a-w.”

  “Truly I am. Get on your knees.”

  They invented it drunk, around a campfire, years before. That summer a scientist fellow named Nutting rode with them, studying plants. He had a habit of getting philosophical with big subjects around the campfire at night. So the game was, if a man spoke big foolishness, or pomposity, or a bunch of big words, he got dubbed Sir Nut. He couldn’t refuse the honor.

  Grumbling good-humoredly, Craw knelt in front of Flare. “By the power invested in me as Grand Poobah,” intoned Flare, “I hereby dub thee Sir Nut.”

  He tapped the ashes of his pipe onto Craw’s balding head.

  Craw jumped up laughing and slapping at his head.

  Flare jumped back, well back. Must have been a hot spot or two in those ashes.

  “Whoo!” hollered Craw, laughing. “Whoo! That’s what I get! Whoo!”

  When Miss Jewel heard about the wedding coming on Saturday, she turned to her Bible and read. After a while she copied some verses from Jeremiah into her journal:

  Be not afraid of their faces, for I am with thee to deliver thee, saith the Lord.

  Thou, therefore, gird up thy loins, and arise and speak unto them all that I command thee; be not dismayed at their faces, lest I confound thee before them. And they shall fight against thee; but they shall not prevail against thee; for I am with thee, saith the Lord, to deliver thee.

  But what should she say? Who should she fight?

  Part Five

  A BRAVE NEW WORLD

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The wedding day was more than Miss Jewel could take. In a way she would have liked to stand right there and watch her Billy Wells get hitched to none other than Elvira Upping. Just went to show, she thought.

  Went to show what?

  She didn’t know. She chuckled sardonically. But now that the church had given her the boot, she had some richly vulgar thoughts.

  The spectacle might be fun, but she wouldn’t be able to bear the shunning. They would celebrate the joining together of man and woman, and then have a big dinner on the grass in front of the church, and everyone would maintain this elaborate charade that said Maggie Jewel didn’t exist. They would go around with stiff backs turned to her. Not one person would speak, or nod at her, or offer her tea.

  Oh, her moods were black these days.

  Funny how your feelings played tricks on you.

  She didn’t want Billy Wells. She saw him for what he was, a weasel, a chameleon. But her fantasy wasn’t as smart as her wide-awake brain. Her fantasy made lots of fairy-tale pictures of her and Billy together. Making love. Teaching the innocent. Making love. Raising children. Waking up together. Making love.

  No, fantasy wasn’t smart. It raised up Michael Devin O’Flaherty last summer, half man, half devil. This winter it raised up Billy Wells, all worm.

  If she stayed here today, fantasy would make her cry.

  It would be disgraceful to cry over a worm.

  She went into the yard, where Sima was splitting wood. She smiled to herself, thinking how glad he would be.

  “Let’s go to French Prairie today,” she said. Lisbeth’s parents had come back two days ago, and she was mere, so Miss Jewel didn’t have to give a reason.

  “Nothing to do with Lisbeth,” she said.

  He dropped the maul and grinned.

  First sign of life from Miss Jewel in days, Sima thought. Didn’t ask questions, just got his rifle and saddled his fine American horse and got her mounted and they set off.

  He liked French Prairie. Even when Lisbeth wasn’t there. People lived in shacks and tipis and even lean-tos. They wore skins. They ate meat they hunted and berries they gathered. Most of them were Indians by blood, and even the Frenchies and few Scots were Indians by learning.

  Sima felt like life at Mission Bottom was all about pretending you weren’t one of the beasts. You wore spun cloth, not the hides of animals. You were embarrassed about needing to go to the bathroom. You never talked about sex. You ate what you cultivated in nice rows. You were too good to be earthly.

  God, if only word would come from Dr. McLoughlin. But not quite yet. He didn’t want to leave Miss Jewel in trouble. He wanted to see Flare before he headed out. He wondered if he could take Lisbeth with him.

  They came to the edge of the clearing of the cluster of cabins called Jarvis’s and saw some fellow pissing in the grass in front of old Baptiste’s cabin. It made Sima smile big. Miss Jewel started to smile, he saw, but killed it.

  It wasn’t until they rode closer, and heard him holler, that they realized it was Flare.

  Flare knew damn well it was them. Knew it damn well. What other white woman rode astride? He shoved his prick back behind his breechcloth before he started hallooing. Mind your manners, lad, she’s a lady.

  He went running up to them.

  “Top o’ the morning to ye,” with a fine, wide smile.

  They said something friendly back.

  Ah, it’s right awkward, isn’t it? You want to hug both of them, but look at the spot you’ve put yourself in. Sima doesn’t know you’re his father, and Miss Jewel thinks you’re the griz of all liars. A fine job of living you’ve done.

  He stood a few steps off, looking at them sheepishly.

  Sima offered a hand, and Flare gave him an abrazo, saying it was a custom he’d learned among the Spaniards down in California. Actually, he’d learned it years before, in Taos. Felt good to grip his son. And he touched his hat to Miss Jewel, up there high on that horse.

  “I’m glad to see you, Mr. O’Flaherty,” she said warmly. Her face looked flushed. “I want to tell you immediately how sorry I am that I accused you of falsehood. Billy Wells was the one who was lying, I know that now.”

  Flare was taken aback. He held his hands up and she took them and dismounted, almost into his arms. He looked into her eyes. He wished the woman didn’t always make him feel weak-kneed.

  “Now that we have a bit of an understanding,” he said to her, aware of sounding more Irish than usual, “do you think you could call me Flare? That ‘mister’ makes me feel like me father.”

  “Thank you, my friend,” she said. “And I’m Maggie.”

  “That ass Billy is getting married right now,” Sima said ironically. ‘To Miss Upping.”

  Flare saw pain in her eyes. He stepped away from her or else he’d embrace her. Miss Upping, he thought, fitting enough,
that tight-ass. Turds of a feather flock together.

  “Let’s not talk about this now,” said Maggie. “Sima will fill you in. I want to have a good time.”

  “You’ve come on the right day, lass,” said Flare. “We just rode in last night and we mean to feast today.”

  “And lift a cup,” Miss Jewel said with a smile.

  “Surely some will do that,” said Flare.

  “And dance to Monsieur Jacquet’s fiddle?”

  “A jig or two, lass.”

  “Sounds grand,” said Maggie. “I want to dance with every man in the place.”

  “A right bastard, yes?” asked Sima with a smile, checking the term. They were walking toward Flare’s surprise for the lad.

  “A right bastard,” said Flare grimly. “And Dr. Full is, too.”

  Sima had given Flare the whole story, a nasty bit of work by Billy Wells, backed up by the good doctor. It didn’t make sense to Sima. Flare claimed it was because the missionaries despised the strong and fawned on the weak. He couldn’t tell if Sima thought so, too.

  Flare studied Sima’s face. Surely the lad wouldn’t be tempted to model himself on the missionaries now. Surely. But he was a lad to keep his own counsel.

  The shunning was rotter stuff. There are no cruel like the righteous, Flare thought.

  He’d damned well better get Maggie Jewel out of this miserable situation. Damned well.

  They came to the little corral with the horses. “Here’s the surprise, lad,” Flare said with a gesture. Sima’s face looked…afraid to hope. “We did well on the pony raid. A dozen horses—six for me, six for you. You may choose your six—they’re all fine.”

  Sima looked at Flare, looked at the horses, back at Flare. He offered his hand gravely. “Thank you.” He was a good lad.

  “The six are yours to do as you please with. But here’s an idea. Good ones like that would soften a lot of hearts back with your people. Clear your back trail.” And get you away from these missionaries.

  Sima nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you,” he said softly.

  Flare looked at her across the big fire pits. The Frenchies were roasting a couple of elk whole on spits. Would be fine doings, though not quite so fine as buffler.