“Ah! Wife! A squaw in every camp. A sailor has a whore in every port!”
“Wife,” said Skye.
He smiled brightly, walked toward the wagon where two other Misters were spreading robes, tossing a little bug powder on them, and coughing. In the other wagon a few uncured hides were being laid flat.
Skye stepped up to the wagon bed and began the labor. Skittles watched, and then slid his dragoon revolver into its nest at his waist.
The trading was going smoothly. An endless stream of Crows, most of them lugging valuable buffalo robes, or elk hides, or wolf or mink or ermine furs, wound toward the trading area. The Crows were colorfully dressed, as if this were a festival occasion, many in deerskins decorated with bright ribbons. The older ones were wrapped in blankets, and Skye was glad. They, at least, would sleep warm this night.
To the casual observer, it looked more like an idyllic rural fair, with laughing Indians telling their usual bawdy jokes, and orderly lines of people waiting their turn to bargain a robe or a pelt for a cup of brew.
But this was only prelude. He eyed the sun, slowly sinking now, and knew that when dark fell, so would all civility, and before the sun rose again, the ground would be soaked with blood and the wealth of a village would be lost.
He furtively studied the whole scene, looking for ways to do what must be done, and found none. Skittles and his ex-army bunch would not be taken by surprise.
He spotted Victoria wandering in, her eyes bright, her greetings to all around her cheerful. But what set him to worrying was not her presence, but what she carried in her arms. She had a prime robe with her and it would buy her a cup of that brew, and he knew he had to stop her.
He jumped down from the wagon, raced to her.
“No, Victoria!”
“Skye, dammit, I will have a drink.”
He clasped his hands about her shoulders. “If ever I need you, I need you now.”
She smiled gently and worked free.
“Ah, the little Missus,” said Skittles. “Welcome, welcome. I see you’ve brought us a good robe.”
“Her name, to you, is Many Quill Woman, Skittles.”
“Why, Many Quill Woman, we have a treat just for you. A little drink back here, with your mate. A little jug just for the two of you.”
Skye knew suddenly how Victoria was gaining access to the traders’ camp.
thirty-six
Skittles led them behind the wagons to a quiet spot near the traders’ campground. Skye didn’t like it. The mob around the trading wagon was safety of a sort, but here, fifty yards away, whatever happened would not be noted. There was plenty of daylight now, but in a couple of hours whatever happened here would be cloaked in night.
“Now, little lady, you just settle yourself and have a drink. If you’re Mister Skye’s friend, you get all the spirits you want for that robe. We treat our friends just right.”
“Hot damn!” she said. “Wooee!”
“Victoria, we’ll go back to the lodge now,” Skye said.
“Dammit, Skye.”
He tried to lift her up, walk away with her, but she fought him off.
“Maybe you’d care to join her, Mister Skye?”
“No thanks, mate.”
“I’ve just decided you’ll join her. This is quite perfect. If you were elsewhere, I’d have to keep track of you. An unhappy employee can cause problems. So, have a drink on the house.”
Skye grinned and refused to sit down. He was as vulnerable as Victoria. They both could wrap themselves around a jug and enjoy the whole shot. Many a rendezvous, back in the trapping days, they had whooped their way into oblivion. But not now. Not when everything was at stake.
He heard shouts. The party was becoming a little frolicsome around the trading wagon. Someone had brought drums, and now the throbbing beat was hammering the village. One young man in a red blanket was parading himself back and forth before some bright-eyed girls.
“Skittles, I quit.”
“I thought you might, Mister Skye. A pity. According to the contract, you surrender your worldly goods to us. The ugly horses you put so much stock in, your outfit, your rifle … and the little Missus here. We’ll enjoy her.”
Skye swung, caught Skittles off guard, knocked him to the turf, but Skittles was an army man and up like a cat, his revolver blooming in his hand.
Skye didn’t much care. He swung again. The revolver barked. Skye felt the ball part his hair. He jammed in, wrenched Skittles’s arm just as the next shot sailed by. Then half a dozen green shirts landed on him, yanked him back, threw him to the earth, and twisted his arm until he thought it’d break. These were skilled brawlers.
Victoria howled, and dashed her jug over one of them. Then they caught her and pinned her down near Skye.
Skittles rose, dusted himself, smiled blandly. “Why, Mister Skye, you’ve mussed up my attire,” he said. “We don’t want to give the redskins the wrong impression.”
Skye felt a half a dozen hands and arms pinning him to the cold meadow. Victoria was caught in the same vise. Some Crows stared. Mostly they kept on sipping, peddling furs at the wagon, and courting each other.
Skittles gazed blandly about until he was satisfied that the uproar behind the wagons had scarcely been noted by the Crows.
“It seems we have the upper hand, Mister Skye. We always do. But you’re a little slow to learn.”
Skye stared up at him.
“Let him get up,” Skittles said.
Skye was lifted to his feet. Arms continued to immobilize him.
“As it happens, I need you, Mister Skye. The traders have trouble with the Crow tongue. You’ll come and translate.”
Skye started to object but Skittles cut him off.
“Don’t say no. Don’t ever say no to me, Mister Skye. The only words I plan to hear are, ‘Yes, Mister Skittles.’ That’s what you’ll be saying from now on.”
“Let her up and let her go,” Skye said.
Skittles smiled broadly, revealing those perfect teeth. “She has a new name, Mister Skye. The name is not Victoria, and not Many Quill Woman. The name is Hostage. We now hold everything you care about hostage. Your ugly colt is a hostage and so is the mare. Your, ah, wife is our hostage. Your miserable possessions, a battered Hawken, a bedroll, a few tools, those are all hostage too. You must be in your forties. That’s not much for a lifetime, is it?
“It’s all hostage now, Mister Skye, and you will say ‘Yes, Mister Skittles’ whenever I ask you to do something. If you say ‘Yes, Mister Skittles,’ maybe your squaw won’t get hurt. Maybe you might even get your horses back. And your rifle. Maybe. Only maybe. It will all depend. You are going to be a slave, Mister Skye. You are going to say yessir, yessir, and you are going to smile, and you are going to invite your old friends from this village to the trading wagon, and smile at them. And if you don’t, Mister Skye, the things that will happen tonight, once the orgy starts, oh, yes, there’s usually an orgy and a few redskins dead by dawn—the things that will happen to your squaw, and your animals, won’t even be noticed.”
Skye nodded.
They stepped back. He stood free. He could run. He could howl. He could maybe even walk away.
Skittles smiled again. The man worked at smiling, had a smile for every occasion, a bright smile, a condescending smile, a triumphant smile. He flipped open his revolver and ejected the two spent shells and reloaded from a handful that fit into loops on his belt
“Time’s a wasting, Mister Skye.” He pointed toward the trading wagon.
Skye watched them steer Victoria toward the traders’ camp, and then she disappeared inside a tent. He watched the flap close. She was in there with a couple of green shirts.
He clenched and unclenched his hands.
“Mister Skye?” Skittles asked. He pointed gently toward the trading wagon where two or three green shirts were still raking in pelts and robes and pouring out watered-down spirits. It was not yet evening, but soon would be.
He saw
no quick or easy way out. But he would await his chances and break when he could.
“Why, it’s Mister Skye, going to help us out,” said one of the green shirts, Mister Oliver.
A familiar old woman was approaching. He knew her; he was acquainted with most of the people in Otter’s band. This plump old lady was Little Red Fox, a graying widow who made and decorated cradleboards and gave them to young mothers. Her bead and quill designs were famous for warding off dark spirits and bringing luck to the infants in the cradleboards, and she was revered for the goodness she brought to the newborn.
“So it is you, Mister Skye,” she said in her own tongue. “I heard it was you. You’re a trader now?”
“What’s she saying, Skye?”
“She’s asking after me.”
“I am not a trader, mother. But I will translate.”
“That is good, Mister Skye. I brought this good robe, which has served me well for many winters. I want to trade it for some needles and thread, a new awl, a new knife, and many bright beads.”
“What’s she say, Skye?”
“She wants to trade her robe for needles, thread, beads, an awl, and a knife.”
“Tell her to take the robe over there to have it looked at. We’re not trading for the hardware now, Skye. We’ll trade her for a cup of lightning.”
Skye didn’t like what he was being forced to do. “Mother, they say to take the robe over there, where the men in green shirts will look at it and offer a price for it. Then they say they’ll give you some of the water that makes people crazy. They say they won’t trade for the things you want now.”
She sighed. “Are they out of these things?”
“She wants to know whether you’re out of the things she wants.”
A green shirt grinned. “Just tell her we want her robe and we’ll give her a treat.”
“They want your robe and they’ll give you some of the water that makes you crazy.”
“I think not, Mister Skye.” She smiled and walked away.
“What’d she say? You let her go!”
“She said no.”
“You let her go!”
“She makes beautiful cradleboards and decorates them and is famous in the village for the things she makes with her hands. It is very good luck to get one of her cradleboards.”
“Go tell her we want that robe.”
Skye shrugged, and hastened after her. “They said to tell you they want the robe.”
She paused. “I wish you and Many Quill Woman would make a child. I would make the most beautiful cradleboard I have ever made. I would weave powerful signs into it.”
“I’ll tell them.”
He returned. “She said she wishes my wife and I would have a child so she could make a cradleboard for us, and for our baby. She said it would be the most beautiful one she has ever made.”
“Damn you, Mister Skye, take this hooch to her and snatch that robe.”
Skye stood paralyzed. He thought of Victoria, in that tent. He thought of his medicine colt, and the mare. He thought of Victoria at the utter mercy of those green shirts. He thought of the colt and mare lying dead, their throats slit.
“No,” he said. “She doesn’t want your spirits. She wants what she wants. And we don’t steal robes.”
The green shirts laughed but let it go. Skye had won a tiny victory but he was losing the war.
thirty-seven
Chief Robber himself showed up with three of his youngest wives beside him. He paused, rocked on his heels, studied the bacchanal, looped his way around the trading wagons, and then discovered Skye.
“Ah, it is you, Mister Skye,” he said. “Are you working for the traders?”
“I am their captive.”
“What’s the chief want?” asked a green shirt.
“He’s inquiring about my employment.”
“Tell him, he’s got robes to trade, we’ll give him some good brew. Nothing but the best for old Robber.”
“The traders wish to trade robes, and will give you the best of their water that makes men crazy.”
“Why are you their captive?”
“They have taken Many Quill Woman and my horses and my rifle from me.”
“That is a good joke.”
“What’s he say, Skye?”
“He asked me about my employment, and I told him.”
The Robber smiled. “It is a good evening,” he said. “The young men drum and dance. The girls flirt. Friends sit around the big fires and laugh. It is a good time. I was wrong about spirits.”
“Translate,” yelled a green shirt.
“He says it’s a good evening, and he was wrong about spirits.”
The chief studied the cheerful crowd. “I like this. I see no harm in it. I will trade. I want a big jug of crazy-water. Here are my three youngest and prettiest wives. They will make the traders happy. Say this.”
The ladies smiled seductively. Skye noticed they were all gotten up in their best, with vermillion on their cheeks, and wearing their finest quilled dresses. Their eyes shone.
Skye didn’t want to translate. He coughed and hemmed and settled his top hat on his locks.
“Come on, Skye.”
“Chief Robber wishes to trade for a large jug of your best stuff. His payment is to lend you his three youngest and prettiest wives.”
That caught their attention. The green shirts suddenly quit grading and loading robes, and rushed to the women, who were delighted with the attention. To be lent out by their husband the chief was a delicious honor.
“No,” said Skittles.
The boss appeared out of nowhere and grasped the transaction instantly.
“Mister Balsamwood, go back to work,” he said. “Mister Skye, tell Chief Robber we’ll be delighted to give him our very best spirits, one cup for one prime robe.”
“But, sir,” said Grosvenor, “that’s a dandy offer.”
“Business before pleasure, Mister Grosvenor. After we clean out all the robes, then I’ll consider it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Skittles turned to Skye. “The squaw’s enjoying a drink or two. Behave yourself, Mister Skye.”
“Same to you, sir.”
Skittles clouded briefly, smiled, and wandered off.
Night was falling. The incessant drumming was affecting Skye’s heart, making it beat to the rhythm of the drums. Some of the Crows were chanting, their hard voices violating the twilight peace. A few young women crowded about the trading wagon, where they were disposing of ermine and mink pelts, each for a half cup of the hooch, poured into the gourd bowls they brought along.
Green shirts tucked the mink and ermine hides into the corners that no buffalo robes filled. The wagon with cured furs and pelts was full; the other wagon, with raw buffalo hides, was not. The green shirts were making a haul. And this was but one village. The outfit planned to visit several more. It was working north toward Blackfeet, Gros Ventres, and Assiniboine villages. It struck him that the owners and their employees would split upward of twenty thousand dollars from a winter’s work.
One by one, the young men slipped away, dug up another robe somewhere, and returned. Now it bought them watered-down spirits, and with a pinch of bug powder to make them crazy. Skye didn’t need to translate. They dropped a robe before the traders, who examined it by lamplight, and the warrior walked away with another cup of the rotgut steadily being stirred up by a couple of expert green shirts.
It seemed an idyll. A mild winter’s night. Some good drumming. Stars popping out. A few warming fires. Some flirting, some giggles, some couples meandering away from the light and into their own world. The spirits were dissolving restraints. Men laughed. The girls turned seductive. Even the chief was joining the revels.
Skye thought of Victoria. Was she guarded? Was she bound or constrained? How could he free her? How could he free the mare and Jawbone, corralled in a makeshift pen? How could he get to her? He didn’t even know which of the traders’ tents she was in. But
nighttime was a good cloak.
Chief Robber’s women showed up, each bearing two robes, which was all most women could carry. These were prime robes, luxuriant and thick.
One came to Skye. “Jug. He wants a jug.”
“The chief wants a jug,” he told Mister Oliver.
Skittles materialized out of the dark. He had been prowling, ever alert, ever aware of everything in the camp.
“Six prime robes, Mister Skittles,” said Oliver.
“All right, six cups.”
“Of this?”
“What else?”
He motioned toward the kettle of watered-down muddywater stuff, spirits and pepper and whatever else the traders felt like tossing in.
It was Skittles’s deliberate act of disrespect for the chief.
Skye watched the green shirts prepare a jug and hand it to one of the wives. She beamed and hurried away with the two other women, and were soon lost in darkness.
He felt bad. Everything about this was bad, and he included his own yearning to settle in a corner with some of that rotgut somewhere and pour it down his gullet.
In an hour or two the sober green shirts would be absolute masters of this Crow camp. Many of the younger Crows were plainly drunk. But they seemed cheerful enough, and Skye thought maybe the night would pass without tragedy.
But then in a flash of flame everything changed. One young man wrapped a blanket around a young woman, an old courtship ritual, and a rival howled, drew a knife, slashed, and all Skye saw was blood gouting into the old blanket. The girl screamed. She raced into darkness, spilling her blood and covered with her swain’s. A young man fell, rolled across cold ground, and lay in a widening black pool. Other young men howled. Firelight glinted off of naked knives.
He didn’t know their names. He only knew that brothers and friends were fighting brothers and friends, old men were wrestling with young ones. The beat of the drums stopped cold, but now there were howls and shrieks terrible to hear.
Skye raced into the melee.
“Avast!” he roared, the roar erupting from his belly.
He threw men apart. But drunken warriors howled at him and slashed the air with cold steel.
“Let them brawl, Mister Skye. It’s all part of their nature.”
The Fire Arrow Page 19