The Fire Arrow

by Richard S. Wheeler

“Stop,” said Skye. “Turn around. Show me your back.”

  Skittles slowly revolved. There was no weapon, nothing but the back of his shirt. He wore no coat.

  “All right, Mister Skittles.”

  Victoria slid to one side. The trader would have an arrow in him if he tried anything.

  But Skittles, his bare hands before him, stepped to the lip of the sandstone cliff cave, and Skye nodded him in.

  Skye could not imagine what this was about. “Talk,” he barked.

  Skittles sat down, carefully staying several feet from Skye, and studied Victoria, who eyed him fiercely.

  For a moment the man seemed unable to say anything. He blinked, stared at Skye, and was plainly trying to organize his thoughts, or at least find some way to begin.

  “I wish to start my life over,” he said.

  forty-eight

  Of all the things that Skittles might have said, that was the least expected. Skye stared at the man.

  Skittles said nothing for a moment, plainly struggling for words. Then he startled Skye again.

  “It was the dead mare that did it. You were attached to the mare. I don’t know why. A wreck of a horse. But there was some sort of bond, and a bullet destroyed it.”

  Skye nodded. The loss of the mare was an open wound. Skittles had been unwise to bring it up.

  “I’m ruined, you know,” Skittles said. “You delivered the coup de grace, but I was ruined before you burned the spirits. The mired wagons, the dead teams. Worse, we got word from a courier that one of our wagons loaded with hides tipped over when they were fording a creek, Flat Willow Creek, I believe, and we lost the whole load. I can′t pay my men. I can’t pay my creditors. We thought to make at least ten dollars on the dollar, and now I’m in debt.”

  Skye sat, annoyed. He didn’t want to hear of the man’s troubles. Skittles was a scoundrel, ruining villages with illegal whiskey, demoralizing a whole tribe.

  “If I wish to change my life, Mister Skye, it’s because you’ve inspired me.” He turned to Victoria. “And you also, madam.”

  She muttered something under her breath that was an Absaroka version of “Off with his head.” Skye smiled slightly.

  Skye settled down for an ordeal. It was plain that Skittles would be a bore and the glorious spring day would waste away in a drone of words. He noticed a great disturbance of ravens up the valley a bit, and watched it closely. Something, or someone, was approaching. Victoria noticed it and glanced sharply at Skye.

  But Skittles didn’t seem to notice. He was caught in his own world. “I started after you at dawn. Of course I had no idea who it was. Arrows stuck from every burning cask. Indians, of course. Indians, burning my spirits. It was a bonfire, all right, Mister Skye. Flames climbed maybe twenty feet at the worst of it, and we couldn’t get anywhere near. I told my men to pull our tents back, and pull our supplies away. That was after I ordered them to shoot at any faint movement. I told them not to blind themselves looking at the fire, but to run out to the darkness and then study the world. They did, and they shot your mare.”

  “You’re a military man,” Skye said.

  “I was. A lieutenant. But there is no future in it.”

  The horses were alert to whatever was coming down the Musselshell Valley. They all stared, ears forward. Skye was less interested in Skittles than he was in the invader.

  “There was no saving those barrels, sir. I ordered my horse saddled. But it was too dark; I couldn’t pick up a trace, so I waited until first light, and I started with three men, leaving the rest behind to guard what was left of my outfit.”

  Skittles had at last settled into a narrative, and was droning along.

  Skye saw the cinnamon bear as it worked along the bottoms; no, not cinnamon, but brown, and with the massive hump at its shoulders. A grizzly.

  The ravens followed, making a fuss.

  Skye pointed. “He’s fresh out of his den, hungry, and mean as a man with a sore tooth. There’s not much to eat now.”

  Skittles stared. “I have not seen one,” he said.

  The bear was pawing at stumps and deadwood, sniffing the earth, paying attention to nothing but himself. The horses were tugging at their pickets. But Skye thought nothing much would happen. The bear was far below, in the bottoms.

  Skittles drew a breath and plunged in. “We found your mare a mile from camp. I knew at once who had come. And I knew why. You were destroying something evil. Something that endangered your, ah, lady’s people.”

  “And other native people,” Skye said. Suddenly Skittles was more interesting than the grizzly.

  “Yes,” Skittles said. “Mister Skye, I saw that mare and I realized you had taken great risks, put yourself in harm’s way, to destroy a stock of Indian whiskey. I wondered why. Why would a white man do that? You see, it’s all about race. You planned an assault on my camp. Was it vengeance? Hardly. You were doing it for your friends the Crows. I had my men inventory my supplies and found that nothing was stolen. You could have made off with all sorts of valuables.

  “So, again, I asked myself, what is this man up to? And again it came to me that you were protecting your Crow friends. And that surprised me. Why would any man, any Englishman, do that? And it came to me that you were acting entirely from altruistic motives. Because spirits are evil, or at least evil to people who have no experience with them and know no restraint. And I realized the Crows were more than your friends; they had become your people and you were defending them against … predators. At risk of your life. We are well armed and we are all formerly in the services, and we are well trained to deal with trouble. And I was the predator. Like that bear there, working along the river.”

  Skye could think of nothing to say to this man.

  “So, sir, I stared at your dead mare, and I put it all together, what was taken, what was still in our camp, what your assault had accomplished. It stopped us cold, sir. As long as I had the stock of pure grain spirits, I might yet recoup our losses, but once that burned, I had nothing and the whole trading expedition was a disaster.”

  The grizzly was now directly below the bluff, and the horses were watching itchily, their withers and flanks twitching as if they were being attacked by horseflies. But the big, hump-shouldered beast paid no heed. It was hunting for anything that lived under rocks and deadwood.

  “I stopped at the dead mare, and knew you had suffered. I had the measure of you then, Mister Skye. But that wasn’t all. I had the measure of myself. I told my men I would go ahead alone on horse; they were to return and put the camp in order, put up the tents, and wait for further instruction. I came along alone and I found you. I came to tell you, sir, that by your example you have set me upon a new chart.”

  The grizzly paused, raised up on his hind legs, studied the nervous horses, and dropped to fours again. He shuffled upriver, past Skye’s aerie, a menace slowly receding.

  “So I came here to tell you that you have changed a life, sir. I will never be the same. I’ll have to go back and see to my men. It’s my obligation to get them back East unharmed. I can offer them nothing more. The few hides we’ve gotten to the fur posts won’t even cover our expenses, wagons, teams, supplies, all that. But I’m done with this.”

  Skye listened, a thousand questions whirling through his mind. Who was this man? How did he get involved in a scheme to debauch the Indians of the northern plains? Why was he quitting? Traders routinely suffer disasters; most try again.

  “You hungry, Mister Skittles? We have a little pemmican.”

  “I’ve been too hungry all my life, sir, so I will decline, with gratitude.”

  Skye couldn’t puzzle that one out, either.

  “I’m West Point, ‘forty-five. Saw some action in Mexico, stagnated ever since, and resigned my commission last year. There were things afoot. The Indian Bureau’s under the army, you know. Some officers, they see the tribes as barriers to western expansion. Some thought that if the buffalo were killed off, the tribes would collapse. They live on b
uffalo. They need to be turned into farmers. But there’s a much simpler way, faster, crueler but more effective, and it fell to me to attempt it on behalf of men who preferred not to be involved, at least openly. But they are not averse to profit.

  “It was all for white civilization, sir. Europeans will own the whole world.”

  Skye sighed. It was coming to this, then. He wondered how Victoria was coping with this.

  “Absaroka say we are in the best place in the world,” she said. “Not too hot, not too cold. Mountains and lakes for us in the summer, grasslands with lots of buffalo in the winter. But there’s too many Piegans and too many Lakota! We have to fight for our place on the breast of the earth.”

  Skye thought Victoria and Skittles could understand one another.

  Skittles smiled thinly. “Madam, perhaps you are right.”

  Skye wanted to know more. “Who financed this? Who expected a profit?”

  “I am not at liberty to say, sir. I am honor bound to keep silent. But I can say this much: this rose out of the army, and required that no active-duty soldier or officer be involved.”

  Skye hardly knew what to say. “What are your plans, Mister Skittles?”

  “I am going east to tell people in power that the Indian Bureau should not be run by the army. I am going to remember your example. You risked your lives, not for any private gain, but for your wife’s people. I will bear you in mind as I find my way.”

  He paused. “Mister Skye. I don’t quite know what I’ll do. But I have met a man of honor here, a man who sees what must be done for his people, his people of another race but his people, and then he does it at great cost to himself. I don’t know how to say that to you. I’ll go back to my camp, get my men back East, and then see what I can do to salvage my life. I’m the one who has to look at myself in the looking glass each day. I hope someday I will like what I see. You must like what you see in your glass, sir.”

  “What I see, Mister Skittles, is a man in need of a shave and improvement.”

  Skittles stood, eyed the peaceful valley. “I came to tell you this.” He turned to Victoria. “I hurt your people. I am sorry. I have no way to repair what was broken, but please convey to Chief Robber my regrets.”

  Skittles fled.

  forty-nine

  Victoria was grouchy. She was squinting at Skye as if he were an evil spirit. She was stomping around among the horses, making a hash of a beautiful spring day, yanking girths tight, mauling the animals until they laid back their ears. One tried to kick her.

  Skye had a guaranteed cure for Victoria’s moods. He slipped up beside her and patted her on the rear.

  “Go to hell,” she retorted.

  This was getting serious.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She faced him, hands on her hips. “When a bunch of white men talk I don’t understand a damned word.”

  “When a bunch of redskins talk I don’t either,” he retorted.

  “Skye, dammit, what was that all about?”

  He found a sun-warmed yellow rock, dug into a parfleche, and extracted some pemmican wrapped in greasy leather. He cut off a slice and handed the piece to her.

  “Skittles was doing something he knew, at bottom, he shouldn’t be doing. And we inspired him to quit.”

  She nibbled at the pemmican, squinting at him as if he were on trial.

  “The Yanks back East, you’ve seen them, think they own the whole world. This land, anyway, from one sea to the other. It belongs to them, not to native people. They keep pushing west. Settlement, they call it. They start farms, plant crops, drive off the Indians, and take over.”

  “Well, Skye, I’d like to drive the Lakota into the ocean. So I got that, all right.”

  “It′s not the same. The white men, sort of cousins of my English people, think they own this land. And think they’re smart and wise and the world belongs to them. But the tribes stand in the way. Especially these tribes, living off buffalo, well armed, with more fighting men than two or three of their bluecoat armies put together. So the officers, the chiefs, have ideas. How can they get rid of the Indians? They could maybe kill the buffalo and make the tribes start planting crops. They talk about that. But there’s an easier way. Bring spirits out here, ruin your people, and get rich ruining them, by getting their robes and hides for almost nothing. You following me?”

  “Sonsofbitches,” she said.

  “It′s illegal. The Fathers in the capital, Washington, say they can’t do that Treat the tribes right, at least in theory. Give them credit for that.”

  “Theory?”

  “The laws are intended to protect the native people. But they can be evaded.”

  “Protect us? Why the hell would they do that? Give me a Blackfoot and I′ll make a slave out of her. In fact, Skye, I’m tired of doing all your work.”

  “How about another wife?”

  “Hell yes. Three wives. You’re a lot of work. Chief Robber, he’s got four.”

  Victoria smiled, her first smile of the hour. She nibbled the fatty pemmican and stared at the serene valley. “I will hold you to it,” she said.

  “Their army checks the steamboats coming up the river for spirits. No spirits are allowed. They are quite strict about it. But they can’t control spirits going out the trails, the Santa Fe Trail, and now the Oregon Trail. That was Skittles’s chance. He resigned from the army, made an agreement with the fur companies, and took spirits into the villages. You know the rest.”

  She stared at him stonily, and he knew she wasn’t liking this at all.

  “Why did he come here, then?”

  Skye knew he had to try. “To thank me. He saw me trying my best to defend the Absarokas, to keep them from destroying themselves.”

  “Why did he talk like that? Mister this, Mister that?”

  “His way of being civilized. His way of saying to the Indians, you’re savages.”

  “Well, sonofabitch! I should put a savage arrow into his civilized ass. I should tie him up and peel a little flesh off him.”

  “I want to go back to your village and tell The Robber that we burnt the barrels of spirits. And that Skittles won’t be back.”

  “Yeah? Why won’t he?”

  “He had a change of heart. Here’s the thing about that man. He is a man of honor. And he couldn’t stand what he was doing.”

  “You white people are crazy, Skye.”

  “Let’s get going. It’s a good day.”

  She walked in circles, round and round. He had never seen her circle around like that.

  “You’re one hell of a chief, Skye. You sent them back to where they came from with new ideas.”

  “Skittles has very old ideas, but now he is listening to them.”

  She homed in on him, stood before him. “You’re one hell of a chief, Skye. You help the Absaroka people. You make Skittles different.

  “Let’s go back to my people. You don’t talk. Maybe they need to listen to me. I’m going to talk. You just stand there and let me tell them.”

  “I think that is a good idea,” he said.

  They bounded through a glorious spring afternoon, with the moist earth scenting the air, and a warm sun pummeling their buckskins. They plunged down the valley of the Musselshell, and Skye kept a sharp eye out for Old Ephraim, but the grizzly had vanished, probably for a siesta in the benevolent sunlight.

  Jawbone alternated between leading the caravan and sliding to the rear, the tug of his dead mother sometimes capturing his brave heart. But he was doing more; he was acting as a vedette, prowling the country fore and aft and to both sides. The colt was made for war.

  Late that day Skye and Victoria approached The Robber’s winter camp, but something wasn’t right. No one was outside the village. No village police were prowling. No women were collecting firewood. The village stood defenseless. Skye walked uneasily, fearful that some new disaster had befallen Victoria’s people. But when they at last rounded a river bend and discovered the village in place, w
isps of smoke rising from lodge fires, and people huddled about, there seemed to be some shred of normalcy. Maybe the men were out hunting.

  “Damn,” Victoria said.

  She trotted ahead, dragging her packhorses, heading for her brother’s lodge. Skye followed, his eye sharp upon the half-empty village. Victoria reached Two Dogs’ lodge and scratched politely. In a moment Parts Her Hair opened. She had a bloody bandage wrapped about her hand, and Skye knew at once what had happened. She had cut off a finger.

  He got the whole story later. Two Dogs was dead and buried, along with three others of the village. Chief Robber still lay abed, deathly sick. Something evil in the traders’ whiskey had felled them. Instead of getting up the next day, they lay quiet and sweated and cold and sick, and gradually slipped into the spirit place where they might walk the path to the stars.

  The village was sick. Its leaders were sick or dead. It lay helpless. No one did the daily work. No village police patrolled the area. In some cottonwoods close to the river, there were four burial scaffolds, each with a blanket-wrapped victim of the traders’ whiskey.

  Bug powder.

  Skye knew of it. Experienced traders added a pinch just to make the Indians crazy. These inexperienced soldier-traders added more than a pinch. And the result was murder. A horrible death. For strychnine produces convulsions, nausea, paroxysms, inability to breathe, wave after wave until the victim gives up and dies. One more crime laid at Skittles’s feet. The man might repent, but could never redeem himself.

  Victoria fell into the arms of her sisters-in-law and wailed. Skye stood helplessly just inside the lodge door, and finally slipped out into the warm twilight. Knots of people stared. Maybe they were blaming him, or his medicine colt, or all white men for this. He could only stand and wait for what was to come, a stranger in a strange land.

  He heard his name, turned, and found Walks to the Top, wrapped in an ancient blanket, summoning him. He followed the proud old Tobacco Planter to the seer’s small lodge, and entered, swiftly sitting cross-legged before the dour old man.

  “All this I saw,” Walks to the Top said. “All this evil. And I saw the rest.”