The Snake River

by Win Blevins

  She was chattering gaily with two breed women. He chuckled. Maybe they were talking about how to make a lazy stitch, why English selvidge was the best cloth, or what new baubles might be down to Vancouver. Or gossiping about how Madame Sacre Bleu was in a family way again, how young Merde hadn’t learned to keep his prick in his pants, and whatever. It tickled him to think of that highfalutin Miss Jewel making woman talk.

  She looked like she was having a grand time. She needed it, according to Sima.

  Sima had disappeared with Lisbeth. Flare sent silent blessings with them into the bushes.

  He walked around to a bunch of men smoking and talking and shook with Alex McDougal. A square-jawed, blunt-talking fellow, graying and balding, never without a pipe in his mouth, not a bad fellow for a Scot. Didn’t see his wife, Heather, a Bob Ruly from the Red River settlements—Bob Ruly was one of the Sioux tribes. Though named Heather, and a half-breed, she was uncommonly dark, and had the tongue of a shrew. Flare sat with the bunch, lit his pipe, and looked over at Maggie sneakily.

  She’s too tall for you, Michael Devin O’Flaherty, too serious, and far too religious. Bad as hooking up with a Brit.

  What’s wrong with ye, lad? What are these thoughts of domestic life you’re entertaining? Ye’d not be content minding a store. What would be happening when your heart got to itching to see the other side of the mountain?

  Besides, she won’t have ye. Which shows she’s right smart.

  He looked at her. He’d never had feelings like these before, and he didn’t like them.

  But then he’d never had a son before.

  Nor thought of wanting a wife, and more sons, and daughters.

  It gave him the willies.

  Tis a brave new world, Flare said to himself mockingly, that has such creatures in’t.

  Sima and Lisbeth were spooned up together, naked as God made them, wrapped tightly in a blanket. Though it was a lovely April day, evening was coming, and she asked for the blanket after they made love. She was getting chill.

  She wiggled her bottom against him to encourage him. He murmured and kissed her neck and ears and caressed her breasts and belly. She liked what she heard, but she wasn’t sure. He was talking about taking her to Montreal.

  Montreal—it sounded grand. Her father told her all about it. Fancy carriages and French gowns and silver plates to eat from. She’d like seeing that. But they’d never let her have any such luxury. Her father didn’t even dare take her mother there, for fear of the insults on the street. Like her mother, she was just a mixed-blood girl. Which was all right only in the whorehouses.

  She loved loving Sima, but she didn’t see how women sold themselves to men they didn’t know, men who used them quickly and roughly and threw them away.

  She didn’t think she liked white men much. Except her father. She didn’t know many white men. The Frenchies were all mixed-bloods, like her.

  Sima was trying to get her to answer whether she wanted to go to Montreal. If they went, she’d get to stop at the Red River settlements. She had friends there, good friends. Of course, Sima might not like some of the attention the male friends would pay her. She was hardly noticing Sima’s words, just his hands. Soon she decided she’d better shut him up. She knew exactly how to do that.

  Maggie danced until she was ready to drop.

  There were gigues and reels, fast songs and slow, vigorous and languid, athletic and romantic. She really did dance with every man there, she thought, including several who smelled questionable, and a couple with roving hands. Mr. Skye picked her up clean off the ground and twirled her in the air, which was thrilling.

  The music was wonderful. Voyageurs’ songs, they called them, mostly new to her. There were two fiddles and Jew’s harps of all sizes. The harps made a chorus, a drone, the way she imagined bagpipes must sound. The fiddles sang melodies above, now sprightly, now wicked, now sentimental, now dreamy, often melancholy.

  A melancholy one was “À la Claire Fontaine":

  À la claire fontaine,

  M’en allant promener,

  J’ai trouvé I’eau si belle

  Que je m’y suis baigne.

  (chorus)

  Lui y a longtemps que je t’aime

  Jamais je ne t’oublierai.

  In several verses it told the story of a young man, walking one night by a clear fountain, who tells the nightingale to sing while he weeps. He has lost his lover. When she asked for a bouquet of roses, he refused. Now she is gone. He will never forget her.

  You would never have thought these rough Frenchmen, who looked half like animals and who acted and smelled half like animals, were really men of sentiment. But they loved their old songs. They roared out the words to the lively tunes and wept in their rum through the maudlin ones. They sang what they could never say.

  The drunkenness, however, was going to be considerable, with Mr. Skye leading the way. She was glad that Flare didn’t partake, and would be able to see her home safely.

  Only one more dance, she told Skye, who insisted. It was “Passant par Paris,” a lively drinking song, and she wore herself out jigging it.

  Passant par Paris, pour y vider bouteille,

  Passant par Paris, pour y vider bouteille,

  Un de mes amis il me dit à L’oreille:

  (chorus)

  Gai, Bon, Bon

  Le bon vin m’endort et l’amour m’y reveille.

  Le bon vin m’endort et l’amour m’y reveille.

  Skye whispered the translation of the chorus in her ear with mock suggestiveness: Wine puts me to sleep, and love wakes me up.

  When she collapsed onto a log, Flare spoke quietly to one of the fiddlers. Then he turned to the crowd and said, “One Irishman shall give you bunch of drunks a taste of the finer things of life. This is ‘The Young May Moon,’ by the Irishman Thomas Moore, the greatest living poet.”

  The young May moon is beaming, love,

  The glowworm’s lamp is gleaming, love,

  How sweet to rove

  Through Morna’s grove,

  When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!

  Then awake!—the heavens look bright, my dear,

  ’Tis never too late for delight, my dear,

  And the best of all ways

  To lengthen our days, Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

  Now all the world is sleeping, love,

  But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,

  And I, whose star,

  More glorious far,

  Is the eye from that casement peeping, love.

  Then awake!—till rise of sun, my dear,

  The Sage’s glass we’ll shun, my dear,

  Or, in watching the flight

  Of bodies of light,

  He might happen to take thee for one, my dear.

  It was gorgeous. The one fiddle double-stopped sweet harmonies. Flare closed his eyes and sang long, lovely lines fragrant with feeling. It was beautiful and touching. She supposed it was the Irish soul in him.

  When he finished, Flare said, “Now, what the song means is that if it was May, we’d all get loved tonight.” He put a nice little twist on “loved.” Rough laughter around the fire.

  Peculiar man, Maggie thought. He puts forth feeling, then pulls it back. Like all men.

  Crack!

  Shouts. She couldn’t make out the voices. Or the words.

  Crack! Crack!

  A screech of pain. Sima.

  Miss Jewel jumped up, and she saw Flare in front of her.

  Sima came hopping, skipping, trying to run. Mr. and Mrs. McDougal trotted behind him, Lisbeth behind her parents, bawling. Miss Jewel could barely see by the light of the bonfire.

  Crack!

  Screech of pain from Sima.

  Mr. McDougal was…whipping Sima with an ox whip.

  Miss Jewel started for him and bumped into Flare.

  Oh, she saw, Sima was trying to run while he pulled his pants up.

  Lisbeth wasn’t wearing anyth
ing but a blanket.

  Alex McDougal blistered Sima with a torrent of curses. Maggie had never heard such profanity. Heather McDougal pitched in, too. In her French the English words “goddamn Shoshone” were repeated over and over.

  “Stop him,” she snapped at Flare.

  Flare shook his head. “Boyo’s got to learn to handle this kind of trouble on his own.”

  Sima hopped off into the bushes. Mr. and Mrs. McDougal turned and started giving Lisbeth a tongue-lashing. The girl cowered. Heather McDougal kept saying “goddamn Shoshone.”

  “Why does she talk about him being Shoshone?” asked Maggie. Meaning, she’s a half-breed, too.

  “Lass, Indians have their prejudices as well. The Sioux and Shoshones are old, old enemies. But the bad part is that, to the Sioux, the Shoshones are ignorant trash Indians.”

  She looked at him, unbelieving. Then she sat down on the ground and laughed helplessly, and held her head, and laughed and laughed, and cried.

  Flare put his hands on her shaking shoulders and laughed with her.

  Chapter Thirty

  She wanted to pull away from these people for a little now. They were good folks, in their way. She couldn’t help liking them. She had to remind herself that every man jack of them had killed and scalped and consorted with low women. Even the horses they were celebrating were stolen. Unredeemed Man.

  At any rate, they were not her folks. She moved back and sat on the porch of a cabin, alone. She’d spent the day not thinking a bit about her dilemma, just having a good time. That had helped. Time enough, soon, to think, productively, about her predicament. Instead of moping, girl. Time tomorrow to think, and act.

  For sure she’d learned a lesson. She couldn’t survive by herself. Simple as that. Certainly cut a girl down to size.

  Long ago Maggie Jewel had decided she’d never depend on a man, or for that matter on another person, for what she truly had to have. She’d been in foster homes where you had no right to anything, and she’d hated it. Then, later, she’d decided that by the same token she wouldn’t be left out. She’d make a place for herself.

  And now it’s all boiled away, isn’t it, honey? And what’s left?

  She smiled at herself, remembering. Her mother came from Vermont. She used to say the stresses of life to some people were like the fire under the bucket of liquid from the maple tree. When you made the stuff boil, you were supposed to get syrup. Some you boiled and got an empty bucket.

  Life’s boiling you, girl.

  You do in life exactly what you don’t mean to do. She was now dependent as could be, at the mercy of the mission folk. And completely excluded. Not to mention, she’d lost the thing she started out to do, teach Indian children.

  To top it all off, she didn’t have a clue what to do about it.

  So you’d best get to figuring, girl.

  Alex McDougal came to the fire, and Flare eased in next to him. Lisbeth was with her mother. Flare wondered where Sima was.

  McDougal’s eyes were still full of fire.

  “You and I did the same,” Flare said softly.

  “Doon be telling me my affairs,” muttered McDougal. He sucked on his pipe for a while. “Said they were in love,” he spat. “What I saw was in rut.”

  “Aye,” said Flare. “Just children themselves.”

  “I’m not ready to start in raising tiny ones again,” said McDougal.

  “Ye may have trouble keeping ’em apart,” Flare said lightly.

  “Ooh, I donna think so. Heather and I talked it over this last trip. We’ll be going back to Red River.”

  “Red River,” said Flare. Sad for Sima.

  “Aye. She wants to be with her people. Wants Lisbeth to marry into her people. Besides, the bloody missionaries are spoiling this country.”

  He grinned lewdly at Flare. “As long as two thousand miles is longer than six inches,” he said, “we’ll be safe enough.”

  Safe. But no more kind or wise, thought Flare.

  “Sima’s mourning,” Flare said. “May I see you home?”

  She nodded gratefully. “Is he all right?”

  “His bottom is well enough, but his feelings smart considerable. I told him Lisbeth and her family are heading for the Red River settlements. To stay. He’s railing against the fates. My friend Murphy Fox is telling him the course of love never did run true. Before long Murph will give him a dram or two to drown his sorrow, which won’t hurt the lad. All ’round he’ll get through the night.”

  They turned the horses down the trail in the dark, and rode slowly in silence. It was a gibbous moon, a couple of days before the full moon. The gibbous moon always struck Maggie as odd, incomplete, unsatisfying. A life not whole, like hers. Or Flare’s.

  The moonlight splashed and dappled the trees, the new leaves, the earth, the spring grass.

  “I loved your song,” said Maggie. “You have the soul of a poet.”

  “The Irish are strong in the art department,” said Flare, “because the British have all the craft.”

  “I think you’re an American now,” Maggie said.

  “Aye, the Brits have dispersed the Irish, too. That’s one of their ploys.”

  “Always jokes,” she said affectionately. “I want to tell you something, Michael Devin O’Flaherty. Despite your clowning, you’re a fine man.”

  He didn’t speak for a moment. When he did, the sass and the lilt were gone.

  “I want to tell you something, Maggie Jewel. What that Thomas Moore song brought to my mind tonight. You may not think I’m so fine when you hear it.”

  He looked across at her in the dark. They stopped their horses. He didn’t speak.

  She reached across and touched his arm. “I am your friend, Flare.”

  “Sima should hear this first,” he began. “As he will as soon as he wakes up in the morning.”

  He took a deep breath, let it out. “He’s seeking his father. That father is me.”

  She drew her hand away. Then she thought, and put it back.

  He told her about the webbed feet. He told her about Pinyon and his winter among the Shoshones. He spoke of bright, young love, beaming down. He spoke of his innocence then. He spoke of the feeling he had for Pinyon. He spoke with regret of not having sense enough to treasure it. Too young and ignorant, he said.

  “But heavens, Flare, why haven’t you told him?”

  “I’m a coward, Maggie. He told us all how he hates his father. Nothing new, I suppose, right down from that bloody patricide Oedipus.”

  “No coward,” she said.

  He was silent for a moment. “I’d just found him. I was stupidly surprised to discover that I had strong feelings about him. I can’t bear to lose him, not yet.”

  She nodded, then nodded again. “Does anyone else know?”

  “McLoughlin. He knew from the moment Sima asked the name of his father. The trader who spent the winter of ’18 among the Shoshone was I. McLoughlin keeps records of such things. He said if I don’t tell Sima, he will.”

  Flare watched her a moment. “And that bastard Full knows. He spotted the webbed toes on both of us. He made sure I knew how much Sima hates his father, how Sima will spit on me.” Flare thought a moment. “The bastard threatened to tell Sima to get rid of me.”

  “Dr. Full is a wicked man,” said Maggie. “And Sima doesn’t hate his father. He loves you. He will be deeply moved when you tell him.”

  Flare let it sit. “I’ll tell him at first light. He’s got all he can handle tonight. Good Christ, but I want the lad to come ride the world with me.”

  “What will you do? In your new life?”

  Flare shrugged. Since he thought beaver was done, she wondered what directions he would take. He’d mentioned switching to the trade in buffalo hides. He’d told her William Clark, the superintendent of Indian Affairs, had suggested he’d make a good Indian agent for the Platte River country.

  He answered simply, “Live.”

  They rode on in silence. It was a good s
ilence. Maggie felt splendid. Something good was going to happen for this man and boy she cared for.

  They reined up in front of her cabin. Flare dismounted and helped Maggie down. He stayed back this time, but held on to her hands. He looked at her for a long moment. “Maggie,” he began, sounding clumsy, “I have other words unspoken.”

  She waited.

  “I love you. Will you be my wife?”

  She burst into tears.

  He held tightly to her hands.

  “Maggie Jewel,” he said, “I beg you to hear me out. I heard you out once without a word.”

  She nodded, but her head was half turned away, and the tears flowed.

  “I love you. I cherish you. I believe you care for me.

  “Truth to tell, Maggie, I’ve grown up some recently, and I want to make a different sort of life. With you. And Sima.

  “What sort of life? That offer to be an Indian agent probably stands. You could teach the Indian children, which is what you want. That Platte River country is good, close to civilization but in the wilds.”

  She almost sank to her knees.

  “Listen to me, Maggie.” She half lifted her head. “Taos is a good country. American and Indian and Spaniard get on fine. Plenty of need for a teacher.

  “And Californy’s a good country. Grand. Mild all year, anything will grow. Americans and Indians and Spaniards all together again, a new kind of world.

  “I want to start a new life, Maggie. With you and Sima.

  “That’s what I have to say.”

  He waited.

  It took her a moment to change tears for words.

  “Oh, Flare,” she wailed, “just go away.” She pulled her hands back. “Please, go away.”

  She ran for the cabin, sobbing.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Before breakfast Miss Jewel dressed and went to see Dr. Full.

  It was clear to her. Since she could remember, she’d wanted to come to the West and teach Indian children. Dr. Full and his wickedness were beside the point. She wanted to serve the children. She wanted to do what God called her to do. Right now the dream tasted bitter in her mouth. It wouldn’t always.

  So she would damned well do what she must do.

  She smiled at herself. That language was Flare’s sort of talk, and she would have to leave it behind, even in thought. No place for it in her world.